Swan Song
by Amanda1
Summary: "Commander Grissom searches for revenge on Ashley Riot in the aftermath of the battle in the Snowfly Forest. Fate is cruel, and voices in the head are more than imagination..." Please give feedback, good or bad.
1. Whisper

Swan Song  
  
by [Amanda][1]   
barhaven@hotmail.com

  


The Snowfly Forest was more like a forest made of crystal than a natural one. There was an eerie silence that made the forest seem dead. Plants still flourished, and there was wildlife of sorts, but the darkly beautiful forest was more of a twisted maze than anything natural. Though Dark's influence wasn't as strong here as in Leá Monde, its hold was strong enough to keep it in the boundaries of the God-forsaken city. The forest shared the same curse. There wasn't a bit of life within the city walls that wasn't twisted by the Dark. The dead and living alike were held by it. Any animals still living here were twisted to vicious bloodthirsty monsters. Leá Monde had the same effect on humans. It was just slightly more subtle. The Dark could easily twist the living to it's desires. 

Death was no escape from the evil that stained every stone of the city and every tree of the forest like filth and blood that refused to wash off. Souls that died in this forest shared the same fate as those who died in the city. Incomplete Death. Living Death. A fate worse than death. 

The wind calmed in the clearing at the very edge of the Snowfly Forest. Snowflies drifted around the Woodcutter's Run like tiny faeries in a faerie ring. The Run was bordered by a mixed fence of trees, rocks, and raised mounds of dirt. The snowflies were slowly spreading into the clearing. The stench of summoned evil was still strong here, and it perturbed the tiny flies. They retreated from the presence of evil. The physical presence was gone now, however. Only the residue of a summoning was left like invisible smog in the air. 

The presence of a summoning wasn't the only thing in the clearing. It was covered with the scars of battle. There were footprints all over, and the occasional smeared imprint of hands and kicked up dirt where someone had been knocked down. Trees showed the fresh slashes of blades from when the battle wandered to the edge of the clearing. Several trees were charred black with the burns of lightning strikes that no storm had caused. 

Only one living person remained in the forest clearing, crouched on the ground amid the leaves and moss. His sword acted as a support for him to lean on. He was reeling from psychological blows that cut all the way to his very soul. His tormentor was gone now, but the conversation haunted him still. This place was hell-bent on twisting and confusing him every step of the way. 

It was a long time before he stood up. Longer still before he put his sword away. There was only so long he could sit here nursing a hurting soul. All of Leá Monde was out for his blood. It was like standing in thick mud. If he didn't keep moving, it would drag him down. 

He slid his sword out an inch. The red of blood stains was smeared the length of the blade. It scraped a little as he drew it from the sheath again and casually wiped it on the clothes of a freshly dead man beside him, careful to stay away from the blood-stained cloth around the man's wounds. The blood on his sword came off easily. Damned Crimson Blades... They were all so eager to kill him. Even after killing some of their commanders, they still would not leave him be. What a stupid lot. 

He finished cleaning his blade and slammed it back into the sheathe, not sparing a glance or a prayer for the man he'd killed. One less corrupt zealot in the world. 

He left the clearing then, pushing his way through the thick trees and onward through the Snowfly Forest. 

It was amazing timing. 

Ten seconds longer in the clearing and he could have seen the corpse's face twitch. 

***** 

In all his thirty-four years, Commander Grissom of the Knights of the Cross had never felt as strange as he did now. 

Grissom was crouched at the edge of the clearing, next to one of the burn marks that marred the ground in the Woodcutter's Run. Crouched. It was too hard for him to stand just yet. He'd tried and found his body stiff and uncooperative. His mind had started out as uncooperative as his body, but the fog had cleared a little. Movement was coming back little by little, frustratingly slow. A little recovery here, a little there... The cleric was growing impatient. 

The scent of burned grass that permeated the clearing seemed to burn a hole through Grissom's sense of smell. It was an overpowering stench. Too much so. Everything was like that right now. The smell of burning was too strong. The sun was too bright. The wind was too cold. And he felt far, far too tired. 

'Tired' was a joke. Nothing felt right. Everything from weariness to pain to discomfort was fighting for his attention, but none of it could quite reach him as much as it should have. It was like feeling everything through a cloud that softened the impact five times over. 

His strength was slowly but surely returning to him, but for now he felt like absolute hell. And he burned to know how long he'd been out. 

The signs of battle were still very fresh in the clearing, so he couldn't have been out of it for long. It was hard to know how much time had passed since that battle. It could be narrowed down to the span of a few hours, but even that wasn't precise enough. Every hour counted now. Every MINUTE counted. The Knights were to regroup at sundown, to stand their ground in the city or retreat until dawn. Grissom couldn't leave this accursed city fast enough. When the time came, that is. There were still things he needed to do here. Things he'd failed to accomplish in the battle. 

The scars around the Run allowed him to trace back the fight. That burn was where one of his lightning spells had barely missed Sydney. That massive gouge in the grass and soil was where Ashley and Grissom's summoned ally Dark Crusader had tangled blades. He could see where he and Sydney had stood their ground against each other. Sydney had been tracing a magical circle in the dirt when Grissom came, preparing to summon another of his Dark creatures. He never had managed to complete the summoning. Grissom's attempt at a quick and brutal attack against the hated cultist ended with Sydney's sword shoved halfway into his chest. Sydney came away from the attack without so much as a scratch, and had the nerve to tell Grissom not to attempt a summoning of his own. There was no stopping the cleric after that. The attempt almost killed him. In the end, Ashley and Sydney provided a sword in his chest instead. 

Yes, the details of that battle were still VERY clear to him. 

It was nothing he could remember fondly. It had been satisfying to sear Sydney and the Riskbreaker with lightning and Dark magick, but a lost battle was a lost battle. One he shouldn't be walking away from. 

Grissom tried for the third time to stand, but lost the strength to do so before he rose more than a foot. A soft grunt escaped him as he fell back on the carpet of leaves, moss, and dirt. He wasn't walking away from anything yet. 

The gash on his chest took his attention. It wasn't something he wanted to examine closely, but seeing where Sydney and Ashley stabbed him was a little unsettling. Thankfully, it did not pain him any more. There was a lot of blood, but it no longer hurt as much as it had before he blacked out. Not fatal after all, he supposed, but it had knocked him out of the battle for good. 

A quiet, tired sigh escaped him as he leaned back on the heels of his hard leather boots. That made him notice the blood trailing from his mouth. He'd coughed up a gallon of the stuff after Riot's sword went into him, and it was still coming. 

Grissom absently wiped the blood from his mouth, then brushed some dirt off the crest on his ruined uniform. A tired but very hateful sneer curled his lips back. The Riskbreaker should know to check corpses before they were buried premature. If he'd had a burial, that is. It was just as well he hadn't. Digging himself out from under a pile of stones or a foot of dirt because of a Riskbreaker who failed to notice he wasn't dead would not have made the last hour any more pleasant. 

There wasn't so much as a bird's chirp to bring the forest to life. There was a far-off squawk from one of the unnatural hybrid creatures the Dark had created, but that was it. The light breeze that drifted through the Run brought very few snowflies with it. One thing that was VERY clear in Grissom's mind was how many flies were floating around this cursed forest. He'd spent long enough wandering here to know it. He couldn't remember how many times he'd passed the exact same trail while trying to follow Rosencrantz's directions. "Follow the snowflies, they gather where evil is strongest." 

Grissom's angry sneer didn't fade any. Rosencrantz. VKP filth. FORMER VKP filth, anyway. Once Grissom lost both Ashley and his Knights to the thick foliage and the maze of trees, it hadn't taken him long to decide two things. 

It was going to take a while to find his way out of this forest. 

And Rosencrantz was full of shit. 

Thoughts of Ashley and Rosencrantz stabbed at him until he couldn't sit still any longer. Weariness hadn't left him, but his strength was coming back. Confusion still lingered as well, like a fog around his mind that refused to break. At least he was getting better with that. He couldn't remember his name when he first woke up. Ashley or that cultist dog Sydney must had bashed him on the head pretty hard to make him wake up so confused. Everything seemed slightly off centre in his mind. It had taken him long enough to actually come to. The half-aware state he'd awakened to only lasted as long as it had taken him to realize his eyes WERE indeed open, and that WAS the slightly cloudy sky he was staring up at rather than the bright lights that had stolen his vision with Ashley Riot plunged a sword into him. 

Setbacks only made Grissom more determined to get what he wanted. He'd come here to kill Ashley. Failed miserably. Intended to kill Sydney too. Failed more miserably. This time he'd add Rosencrantz to his list. Grissom had learned a few things from dealing with the less-than-loyal former Riskbreaker, among them to take everything said with a grain of salt. Why he'd actually listened to the man's directions was beyond him. 

Being at the edge of the clearing was a help to him then. His hand felt around behind him until it touched a sturdy low branch from a pine tree. The branch had a few twigs sheared off due to a stray sword swipe earlier. With a quick prayer for strength, Grissom wrapped his hand securely around the branch. Ignoring the sticky sap that smeared on his gloves, he pulled himself up. 

It took more effort than he could have imagined. He had to lean against the branch to stay on his feet. Someone as simple as standing up had never been so difficult before. His joints were sore and stiff, and he was inexplicably exhausted. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Ashley and Sydney had foolishly left him for dead, but he doubted he'd feel any worse if he was. 

The tree was his support for a while. Another moment and he'd be fine to walk back through the forest. It could go on ahead for another five miles for all he knew. At least if he backtracked he'd have some idea of where he was going. If he made it back to the Undercity West, he could get to the town center and meet up with Guildenstern's or Tieger's men. 

That would come when he could walk. For now, clearing the cloud around his mind was crucial. He felt half asleep even though he was sure he was awake. As a cleric and, unofficially, as a sorcerer, Grissom needed a clear mind and could not afford lapses in concentration. A miscast spell could easily kill him. He'd seen it happen to others. The easiest mental exercise he could think of right now was to smooth out the wrinkles that had appeared in his memory. Every time he tried to recall something it took him a moment to process it. That wouldn't do. 

The events of the last few hours were the clearest in his memory, so he started there and worked his way up, recalling every detail with as much clarity as he could manage. The arrival in Leá Monde. The unholy creatures the Knights of the Cross had found lurking here. The slow realization that there was something much more complex going on here than a mission to push the Müllenkamp cult and their leader Sydney Losstarot out of the cursed city. The murder of his brother Duane. The chase through the forest. And the climax of an ill-fated meeting between Sydney and Grissom, a two-on-two battle with Sydney and Ashley Riot (another VKP Riskbreaker with God-only-knows what intentions here) versus Grissom and a summoned monster in the form of a possessed suit of armour. It ended with Ashley slicing through Grissom's thin but strong armour with a wickedly sharp hagane sword that looks suspiciously like the stolen rapier of a Crimson Blade. Grissom was semi-conscious for some time after, and what his half-alert mind caught only furthered his solid belief that Sydney Losstarot was a manipulative dog who needed to be silenced immediately. 

Grissom tried to move his dwelling memory away from that. It wasn't clearing his mind any, just clouding it with rage. 

Another memory came to him, one that was far beyond Leá Monde's walls. It came far too easily and altogether unexpected. 

The screaming voice. Someone yelling in his face. 

A spray of blood. Warm metal cupped in his hands. 

Nothing pleasant. 

Triggering that made him instinctively reach for the amulet he kept tucked under the collar of his Knight uniform. An...an old trinket to remind him of home and family. It wasn't actually an amulet, but a small brooch set and threaded on a silver chain. The finest thing his father had ever made. The Swan Song. Grissom's mother had worn it every day without fail, and it had fallen into his hands when she died. It was always safely out of sight, either around his neck under his collar or in his pocket. He doubted that even Duane knew he had it. 

Knew. Had known. That was the first time he'd forgotten his brother was dead. 

He reached for the amulet to reassure himself, and found nothing. 

His hand grasped at his neck. The comforting weight of the necklace wasn't there, and he couldn't feel the chain. That sent him into a panic. 

Miraculously, he didn't fall when he let go of the branch to search his pockets. Preoccupation with the missing amulet made him ignore the fact that he could stand again. There was no reason to check his pockets, he clearly remembered wearing the thing through Leá Monde out of an old superstition that silver repelled evil. Little good it had done him against the powers of this wretched city. Even the powers of God himself couldn't stand up to the evil that festered here. 

After proving to himself that it was not anywhere on his person, he found himself kneeling next to the bloodstained spot of ground where he'd come to, and tearing through the grass and moss and leaves looking for a flash of silver somewhere. A few minutes of tearing through the bloody grass yielded nothing but dirt. 

It made him feel slightly foolish when he realized what he was doing. Here he was, kneeling on the ground searching for a trinket when there were so many more things he should be worrying about. Getting out of the city before sunset. Getting out of this FOREST before getting out of this city before sunset. Finding whatever remained of the Blades. Fending off the unholy demons and undead that stalked every inch of this God-forsaken city. Finding Sydney. Rosencrantz. 

Ashley. 

It occurred to Grissom that his Shillelagh staff was missing, along with anything else he'd had with him. The grave robbing Riskbreaker had helped himself to anything his victims left behind, and Grissom had been no exception. 

Thieving Riskbreaker scum. Thief thief THIEF. 

'For God's sake, calm down.' Grissom could feel his mind getting more clouded with every drop of rage that seeped in. That was what he was working to PREVENT. Getting so upset over a sentimental trinket wasn't going to help. 

Still, the loss of the amulet burned more than he ever would have expected, and no amount of rationalizing would take that away. Ashley Riot seemed to have a mission to take away everything that was important to him. Duane, his only living family, died on Riot's sword. The Blades, his second family, were being murdered one by one by Riot and this whole accursed city. And the amulet. Riot hadn't thought it enough to kill him, he had to take a trophy too. 

It was hard to maintain much calm after that. 

He had less trouble standing this time, but his body still felt very stiff and uncooperative, like every movement was a delayed reaction. The fact that he still felt strange did nothing to help, but that was another thing he was going to have to deal with as best he could. 

He looked calmer than he felt as he brushed the grass from his clothes and gloves. Grissom shuddered. It was so bloody cold in this forest. It hadn't been this cold earlier. 

With a small shiver, Grissom headed for the trail leading back the way he came. Being alone in Leá Monde, day or night, was not appealing. If he went back to the Town Center he was sure to meet up with Guildenstern's men. If God was with him, he would meet Riot first. Let the thieving dog stand up to him then. Grissom swore Riot would not live to fulfill whatever little role Sydney was manipulating him into. The Knights of the Cross were here to smash those unholy Müllenkamp dogs and their leader Sydney, and that was exactly what Grissom intended to do. Once this horrible confusion and weakness went away. 

He headed back into the forest, trying to remember all the landmarks on the way and wondering why it was so cold. And why the wind sounded so much like distant screams. 

***** 

The babbling waters of the river were strangely soothing. For all the horror and darkness that had swallowed the city, running water was a relaxing sound. The bridge crossing the river had given out during the great quake, further dividing the city. The river that had flowed as a channel through Leá Monde was a fast-flowing, deadly current that had claimed many lives both before and after the quake. Listening to the soft gurgling water was enough to lull some into a false sense of security, 

Neesa heard the river a full five minutes before she arrived at the former site of the Kesch Bridge. Tieger was already there waiting for her. He sat on the step of some long-abandoned building with his axe resting across one knee. 

"Town Center East is secured," she said as she approached him. 

The massive silver-haired man looked up from sharpening his double-edged axe. "Any resistance?" 

"Who would be here to resist?" Neesa stopped a few feet from the steep drop into the river and leaned on her war hammer. The long, thin weapon had a wickedly sharp point on the end that had been stained with blood of the living and the dead since they arrived here. Neesa was usually one to keep her weapon in good shape, but they were simply fighting too much to worry about cleaning off blood too often. The same went for wounds. Untreated injuries could ruin the body as much as poor maintenance ruined a weapon. Injuries were not a grave concern for her yet. She had a few scratches from the occasional quick monster, but she lived and they all lay dead. Her black uniform was soaked with blood (most not her own) and sweat, but she seemed not to notice. 

"The cold ones," Tieger said simply. "Tis their city." 

"Do not make us the invaders, Tieger," Neesa told him. "The Dark holds this city. The cold ones are its pawns. They own nothing." 

Tieger nodded and continued sharpening his axe. The city was quiet around them, held in an unnatural stillness that kept the Crimson Blades constantly on guard. Anyone who wasn't on guard was dead. The Dark had taken half their soldiers by now. A staggering and unacceptable loss for which Guildenstern would have his head handed to him by the Cardinal. If they got out alive. It was afternoon already, and he showed no signs of preparing to pull out. Surely he knew the cold ones would walk the streets at night, and no place would be safe. The Dark had been picking at them, taking them one by one, but at nightfall it would close its jaws and swallow them all. Even hardened warriors like Tieger and Neesa had no desire to test their skills against whatever creatures would stalk Leá Monde's streets under the stars. 

Above ground in daylight, this city looked the ghost town. It looked...asleep. Abandoned. 

At night, it would prove its title of a wellspring for the Dark. 

Leá Monde's former beauty had not been destroyed by the quake as its inhabitants had. A quake that left every soul in the city dead left much of the actual city ridiculously well preserved. The streets were slightly twisted in places, and many streets ended in pits that fell into darkness, but most of the buildings were intact. The underground, from what Neesa had seen of it, was much the same. There seemed to be more damage from time than from a quake. Twenty-five years... A long time for the Dark to fester here. 

She glanced across the river and considered finding a place to cross. The remains of the bridge could be crossed with a little effort. The waters did not look particularly inviting, with its murky brown-green water and clumps of weeds and debris sticking out everywhere. That had been proven when one of Guildenstern's Knights fell in. The waters were murky, but it was the tangle of weeds that had dragged the man to his death. At least they assumed it was weeds. There were other things capable of dragging men to their death in this city. 

At the moment, the city was split between the Blades. Neesa's Knights held the other side of the river, Tieger's this side, and Guildenstern's the north and south parts of town. She meant to ask him how many men he'd lost if she saw him again, but Guildenstern was nowhere to be found. He'd only left a vague message that he was going to the cathedral. 

Neesa looked between the buildings, at the soaring cathedral in the distance that marked the center of the city. Sun glinted off its spire and made the stone landmark appear grand even from a distance. She didn't know what Guildenstern intended to find there. Müllenkamp cultists? Perhaps. Most of the cultists had been flushed out already, and any remaining pockets were being driven out. A surprisingly small number. Neesa couldn't shake the feeling that they were tokens to make Müllenkamp's presence here seem authentic. Guildenstern had to have seen that, yet he persisted on going to the cathedral. Unless Sydney himself was there, it was not worth the delay they would suffer. 

Ah well. 'War is change,' as she said, 'We must follow suit.' If Guildenstern did not return, she and Tieger would regroup the Knights and retreat until daybreak. Their leader was too absorbed with his hunt for the Gran Grimoire and Sydney to give commands beyond "crush Müllenkamp!" and "take the city!". 

Tieger finished sharpening his weapon, and gave it a practice swing that cleaved a stone in half. "How many did you lose?" he asked as he lifted his axe again. It wasn't even chipped. Damascus was an amazing metal. 

"One missing. He hasn't been found, but I'd guess his fate." 

"One. Ten. A score. Four score. I lost eight on the way here alone. Ach, we're dropping like flies, Neesa." 

"Little Guildenstern cares. 'Crush Müllenkamp', he says, while he rushes off after Sydney and his precious Grimoire. He hunts the King Lion when the pack surrounds him." 

"Aye, Sydney is certainly as elusive as one. But tis the pack I worry about more. We take the city now, but he must know we canna' hold it when night comes." 

"We fly before nightfall, Guildenstern or no." 

Tieger scanned the area thoughtfully. His armour shifted as he hefted his axe and secured it behind his back. "And what of the rest? Samantha?" 

"With her dear Romeo. Love has struck her blind to the dangers of this city." 

"Duane?" 

"Slain by the VKP's Riskbreaker." 

"Grissom?" 

"I don't know. Last I heard he was headed for the Snowfly Forest to catch up with the Riskbreaker and Sydney. The stubborn fool likely sent himself to his death in those woods." 

"And you do not care?" 

Neesa glanced at Tieger, but lifted her hammer experimentally rather than reply. Like many of the Blades, she had a close kinship with her fellow knights. Tieger was like a brother to her, something she hadn't known since her village was raided and her family killed. Grissom she hadn't known quite as long as Tieger, but he was her Brother as well. Comrades. The cleric could be irritating sometimes, but she would hate for anything to happen to him. 

Yet she was a warrior. Warriors lost comrades all the time. She had lost three close acquaintances in the last two years. With the way things were going in Leá Monde, she was likely to lose more. 

"Grissom can hold his own," she told Tieger firmly. "He dabbles in the...'Arts'...like so many of the Blades. If magick helps him, so be it." Knights of the Cross using the Black Arts was less unthinkable than most people believed. Neesa never had any desire to learn magick beyond a shamanistic healing spell or two and some limited teleportation magick. Her warrior skills were enough to see her through the toughest scrape. The Black Arts held no interest for her. 

"The Knights reported," she said. "They claim the Riskbreaker is nearby." 

"We give chase?" 

"We hunt," she corrected. "He's a dangerous one, and better we see him dead. The VKP has no business here." 

Tieger rose from the steps and shifted his armoured shoulder plate a little. He had no arguments with killing the Riskbreaker. Enough of the Knights had been cut down by him already. He was marked as an enemy of the Cardinal now, and a danger to their mission in Leá Monde. 

Tieger looked across the river that sliced the city in two. Another maze of streets picked up on the other side. "Will this never end?" 

Neesa glanced up through the gauntlet of buildings. The sun was crawling across the sky entirely too quickly. It would end, all right. When all of the living in this city were dead. 

"Pray it does not." 

***** 

If there was one part of Leá Monde that was especially unnerving, it was the Undercity. The maze of plazas and tunnels ran under most of the city. They connected the city with the abandoned limestone quarry, escape tunnels (which had suffered terrible damage in the quake and become just another set of blocked tunnels), the forest, and opposite sides of the town center. Leá Monde as a whole was a marvel of architecture, and below the surface was no exception. At its peak, the passages teemed with crowds of people swarming the market to buy their food, clothes, and exotic items of every kind from one of the sweet-talking merchants. 'Aye, we've the finest spices this side o' Valendia!' 'Tis a bargain for such a finely crafted jewel!' 'Fine cloth, straight from the weavers of the southlands!' Beggars, buskerers, and cutpurses made their living in the underground tunnels alongside merchants. A thriving market for a thriving city. 

The little details of the Undercity were amazing in themselves. The magick lamps were the best example. The lamps were ancient magick even by Leá Monde's standards. They lit up the plazas by day, faded to ember-dim glow at night, and never flickered out. The magick lamps had once given the underground a cheery glow, and were counted among the many wonders of Leá Monde. 

That was all past now. The tunnels and plazas were abandoned and crumbling to ruins. The bright glow of the magick lamps was replaced with a permanent ghostly blue that flickered like will 'o wisps. Maybe they were. The stories said that will 'o wisps were the souls of dead children, and there certainly had to have been a lot of them among the five thousand dead in the quake. But more likely, it was simply the power of the Dark twisting the magick. Leá Monde had other places for the dead. 

The blue-tinted halls of the Undercity sang their own sweet song, once laced with the howls of souls and strangely, with the distant windchime laughter of children. Every part of the city was different for that. The souls echoed differently everywhere. They all screamed, but the song was slightly different. 

This place hadn't been quite so unnerving when Grissom had passed through here with a pack of Knights. He felt very vulnerable, and being weaponless didn't lift his confidence any. God help him if something decided to attack. All he had to defend himself was his spells, and he didn't know how effective that would be with his constant lapses in concentration. The fog still hadn't left his mind. It was a strange predicament. He was praying to God with one hand and wielding spells with the other. 

'Hypocrite.' 

Grissom stopped suddenly in one of the many identical doorways of the Undercity. He looked around slowly, and listened as much as his sense would allow. 

Where had that come from? 

Strange voices were nothing new. So many of the Knights swore they heard voices at one time or another since arriving here. Maybe it was getting to him at last. 

But they were so real, so unlike figments of his imagination. Every now and then he'd hear distant voices, but they faded when he shouted out to them. He had yet to tell if they were his imagination, dark tricks of Leá Monde, or Knights just barely close enough to hear, but that last one was probably from his own mind. He'd been called it enough times, usually by screaming people being dragged away for trying to ignite revolutions or acting against the Cardinal. 

'Hypocrites, you and your whole bloody organization! Destroy the Cardinal! You'll all burn in hell and I'll dance on yer bloody Cardinal's grave!' 

Fools. 

Satisfied that it was just another auditory illusion, he resumed his journey through the Undercity. It didn't help that Grissom had no idea of where he was going. Being lost was something he was rapidly growing to hate above all else. 

This place could scare the hell out of a lot of people, but he far preferred it to the Snowfly Forest. That blasted forest held nothing but bad memories for him now, climaxing with a long and frustrating trip back. It hadn't taken him more than ten minutes to get completely lost in the dense foliage. He'd spent a hellishly long time stumbling through a wood where one path looked exactly the same as the last. God, how he was going to hate that place most if he ever got out alive. If there was one part of this nightmare he would curse until the day he died, it would be that bloody forest. 

When he'd found himself at a collection of stone ruins at the end of the woods, it was by a stroke of pure luck. The ruins marked the passage back down to the Undercity He could still see the footprints left by Riot, Rosencrantz, himself, and his two Knights. Faemdos and Lamkin had disappeared shortly after they entered the forest. There was nothing in the world that would make him go back into that forest to look for them. If they were lost, they were dead. That had become the unwritten rule of Leá Monde. 

Grissom tried to push the Snowfly Forest far behind him as he plunged deeper into the Undercity. It would be a relief to put this whole city behind him. Infested with the walking dead, unholy cultists, Dark magick that surpassed anything human hands could summon... The Cardinal had been right to send the Knights here. Nothing short of destroying the city would be enough to drive out the evil, but culling it back was a task in itself. All the orders from Guildenstern so far had been to destroy Müllenkamp. Grissom had abandoned that for the moment. Ashley Riot needed to be dealt with, and he wanted that pleasure for himself. It seemed that everyone had converged on Leá Monde at once. Taking the Riskbreakers out of the race for the city would hasten the extermination of Müllenkamp. 

That, and he WAS going to avenge his brother's death. 

And get his amulet back from that Riskbreaker scum. 

The pale blue glow of the lamps illuminated yet another of the plazas of the Undercity. This one wasn't empty. If the light hadn't have given the presence of the undead away, the pained moaning would have. Grissom heard them long before he entered the plaza. He'd heard the brainless, shambling creatures moan on the way through the Undercity with the Knights. But he'd never noticed the pain in their dead voices before. Mindless, hopeless pain, yearning for more than the half-life they suffered... They screamed for life when they needed release.... 

Grissom frowned slightly. Why he noticed or cared now was beyond him. They were beyond God's power to save, and could only be struck down with steel and spells. But the pain was registering to him ever since he'd come back down here. 

It unnerved him almost as much as the creatures themselves. The zombies, the 'cold ones', were mindless things of pain and rotting flesh. They noticed nothing but the urge to drag others down to death. Grissom had seen Knights sever their limbs, and they kept coming as if a missing arm were but a scratch. They'd attacked in packs as often as alone, and sent scores of Knights to their deaths today. They were monsters, demons, unholy creatures with nothing but blood lust. 

Now they didn't give Grissom so much as a casual glance. 

He'd noticed that in the first zombie-infested room he came across. He'd skirted the room hoping not to attract attention, and bumped into an exceptionally motionless zombie when he was backing up. It had startled him enough to get him three-quarters of the way to casting the strongest thunder spell he knew before he noticed the thing wasn't attacking him. It regained its balance from being bumped into, but didn't move from its spot. In a moment of daring experimentation he'd stood right in front of a half-rotted zombie, the thunder spell still on the tip of his tongue in case the thing decided to notice him after all. Nothing. He'd gone so far as to prod its chest and it didn't so much as twitch at him. That was a good thing, he supposed, better than fighting the undead every step of the way. But it disturbed him far more than being attacked. 

The zombies in this room were no different than those scattered throughout the rest of the city. A few wandered the plaza in an eternal aimless search for things they'd lost in life. Most either stood completely still or lay crumpled on the ground, waiting for the living to wander by. 

Grissom let a wandering zombie walk past him. The thing was wrapped in the remains of a Leá Monde city guard uniform and carried a light axe in the three remaining fingers of its right hand. Its one remaining eye was rolled back in its half rotted skull, and didn't stray in Grissom's direction. The thing was set on an aimless course to a tunnel branching off to God-knows-where. Grissom waited until it shambled out of the room before he entered. He wanted no dealings with the undead, even if they DIDN'T attack him. 

One of the living corpses caught his attention rather than the other way around. There was faint magick emanating from it, different from the simple Dark magick that possessed the souls and the animated corpses. This one was a wizard. Had been a wizard. There was a crest on his decayed shirt that could have belonged to the Leá Monde guards. Perhaps they made regular use of wizards in their city's defences. 

The corpse of the man (possibly woman, the face was too decayed to tell) swayed back and forth where it stood, slumped slightly to one side. A staff was clutched in one hand, and a rather nice one at that. The staff interested him. Grissom had lost his to Riot along with his amulet. The staffs were weapons in themselves (albeit rather weak ones) but their purpose was to amplify the power of the user's magick. Grissom needed all the extra power he could get if he was going to face off against Riot again. Being weaponless made him edgy. 

The corpse was predictably unresponsive as he pried its hand open. A finger fell off the rotting hand in the process, but neither it or Grissom took notice. If his test earlier hadn't been convincing enough, this proved it. The creatures took no note of his presence. Whatever it meant, it couldn't be all bad. 

The staff slid easily out of the corpse's grip and into Grissom's. It was heavier than his old one, and made of iron rather than hagane. That made it disappointingly uncomfortable for him to hold, but better than nothing. It was interesting in its own way. There were ornate, snaking designs going down the hilt, and tiny symbols carved at intervals around it. Possibly something written in a language he didn't know. It wasn't any common language he knew, or even Kildean for that matter. 

"Mithter, that ain't yours." 

The high little voice spoke so suddenly Grissom almost dropped the staff. 

There was no way to know what he'd encounter down here, and something had just sneaked up on him. He could die if he let himself be so off guard. 

He turned sharply, scanning the room for the owner of the little voice. What he saw made him blink. Repeatedly. 

A little girl stood there looking up with big, childish eyes. 

He blinked again. A child. A girl in a little blue dress. There was a doll cradled in her arms. Platinum blonde pigtails bounced around her when she cocked her head to the side and looked at him intently. A CHILD? What was a child doing here? KNIGHTS were being slaughtered by the scores, how was it possible for a child to survive? 

A second glance showed him. Her big, curious childish eyes held the dull yellow glow of the undead, her skin the grey tint of death. The blue and white dress she wore had an ugly blood stain across the front, uncomfortably resembling a sword slash. 

The undead. An undead CHILD! And she was talking to him. 

Grissom took a wary step back, gripping the staff tight. It was tempting to let loose with a spell and be done with her. Child or no child, she was undead. She was cursed to stay here, never to die... Perhaps he should release her from the bonds of Leá Monde and send her young soul to God. If he knew how. He wasn't sure that destroying the possessed bodies did any more than send the souls wandering again. 

The girl laughed at his defensive stance and hugged her doll tighter. No, not a doll. A knife. A long, wickedly sharp little serrated dagger with rust from one end of the blade to the other. She treated it as if it were a beloved toy. 

"Mithter, dun be so weird," she said through a childish lisp. "Ya took sumthin'. Is not nice ta steal, ya know. Mommy told me." 

Despite her obvious state of undeath, she was acting just like any child he'd ever seen. Grissom relaxed a little. But not much. Undead children with knives were no less dangerous than anything else wandering down here. 

"It's alright...dear..." he forced out. Calling the undead by terms of endearment didn't come naturally. "He will not mind." 

"Yeah she would." She. Was the corpse female after all? 

The little girl stuck out her tongue at him. 

That made the confrontation seem that much more ludicrous. Disrespectful little brat. 

"I am here to cleanse evil...child...so do not disrespect the prelates of the Lord." As if the demon child would listen to him. 

Surprisingly, she did. Whether she cared or not was another matter. 

"Lord? Like the Duke?" she asked with childish naivete, ignoring the rest of what he'd said. 

"God, girl." 

She wrinkled her small brow for a moment, trying to wrap her mind around that. "God...? Gods. There's lots, ya know." 

"There is only one." It somehow didn't occur to him that he was getting into a theological debate not only at the worst possible time, but with an undead child who wouldn't know a thing about religion in the first place. 

"Nuh-uh. Mommy says there's lots, an' they're like..." She fumbled for words and found none. Instead, she flung her arms out and spun around in a circle a few times. Grissom was wary of the knife in her outflung hand, but she seemed to have no intent of using it on him. 

When she was finished spinning, she staggered to a stop and clutched the knife close again. Grissom got an expectant look from her, like he was supposed to understand now. 

He sighed to himself. Why was he talking to a dead child? 

"You're dead, girl." 

Her big childish eyes blinked. 

She laughed at him. The blade of her knife was laid across her mouth to stifle her giggles. 

Grissom should have expected as much. Undead or not, she was a child and acted like one. It was a disgrace to have the Blades being killed off by things like this. Grissom transferred the staff to his other hand and turned away from the child. It was a waste of time to converse with the undead. 

He hadn't gone more than a step before there was a tug on his shirt. That made him tense slightly with the fear that she was going to play her part as the undead and attack him after all. 

When he glanced back, she was doing nothing more than he'd felt. Tugging his shirt. A fistful of finely woven material was clenched in her death-white hand. The wicked knife still rested in her other hand, being swung idly back and forth at her side. 

"Play?" she asked hopefully. 

It was so similar to the voice of a real child it made him mentally shiver. 

"I've no time to play with little girls," he told her coldly. Keeping patience with children had never been his strong point. 

Another tug at his shirt. 

"Please please PLEASE?" 

"No." 

She stamped her foot in a childish huff and released his shirt. "You HAVE ta play with me, I...I... Mommy SAID so!" She sat down as hard and exaggerated as she could next to a blue-tinted lamp pole, her arms crossed irritably. Sulking. About ten seconds later she unfolded them and began to scrape her knife across the floor. 

"Your mother isn't here, child," Grissom told her as she pretended to ignore him. "You are dead. Your mother is dead." 

The scraping didn't slow in the slightest. Demented little stick figures were being traced on the stone in thin, jagged white lines. "Mommy's right there," she said without looking up from her drawing. 

"There is no one here but ghosts." 

"Toopid, mommy's right THERE!" She finally looked up from her drawing and pointed her knife square at one of the motionless zombies. 

"Girl, she is DEAD." Grissom didn't know why he was still trying to talk sense into the child. Whether she realized her state or not, she was undead and beyond help. 

The girl jumped up from her place in the blue glow of the lamp and ran over to the zombie. She ducked behind its rotting form and poked her head out from behind. "Toopid." She ducked back behind. 

A few second later her face reappeared. Grinning again. "Oh, mommy says you're not toopid... You're just being silly!" She laughed a child's high-pitched, bubbling laugh. "Silly! Isn't he silly, mommy?" 

Grissom's nervousness was coming back in full force. The girl continued to laugh as he backed towards the nearest door. God, it had been a mistake to waste time trying to save the undead. They were a lost cause no matter what their form. 

"Wait, ya still have ta PLAY!" she called to him when he reached the arching doorway. He couldn't see what was in the next blue-tinted room, but it didn't matter. 

"I'll...play with you later," he muttered to humour her. Underestimating the undead had proved fatal to far too many Knights today. 

She giggled again and skipped out from behind the zombie, playing hopscotch with the cracked tiles of the Undercity floor. When she was directly under the glowing lamp pole, her big eyes stared at him again. She grinned. "Ya don't have ta play with ME!" She pointed her knife again. For the first time, the light was bright enough for Grissom to notice it was stained with dark dried liquid rather than rust. 

The bloodstained knife was held slightly to the left. It seemed she was pointing at nothing. Just empty air and the cold, indifferent blue-tinted walls of the Undercity. 

"THEY wanna play with ya," she whispered, as if it were an important secret. "Silly, they're gonna play with ya!" 

Grissom backed into the next room. The girl's giggling followed him. 

***** 

The invisible world of Leá Monde is a dark wonder to any who can see it. Amidst the corridors and plazas of the city, and even among the trees of the forest, wandering souls drift in the endless existence of incomplete death. Every crevice of every house, every stone of every street... All teem with the unseen phantoms. Flesh long gone, but souls trapped within Leá Monde's walls until their death is somehow completed. 

The souls of Leá Monde are not as one would think. There are no ghosts with human shape pacing their death sites, not knowing they were dead and gone. As souls alone, they are felt only as a presence. 

For those few who can see them, they are little more than faded mists of light and shadow. But they can speak. Perhaps they might tell their tales to those who ask. But the only language they speak in undeath is the noise of soul-searing agony, hopelessness, and yearning for life they can never have. Those few people who have wandered near Leá Monde since its collapse and lived to tell... They say that the chilling wind was the screams of lost souls, searching for bodies to complete the circle of incomplete death. Those souls wander endlessly until they find flesh. When they are exorcised from their new home, they move on to the next. A vicious, never-ending cycle that continues until the flesh rots away or the soul itself is destroyed. There is no thought, nothing but the pain and loneliness and longing. 

There are, however, exceptions to every rule. 

***** 

The streets of Leá Monde were a light in the darkness of the city. They were far from a safe haven, but anyone who emerged from the underground was immensely relieved to see daylight again, even if it came in the form of a ghost town. 

Sunlight had never been so uninviting before. Grissom lingered in the shade of the doorway that led from the Undercity, preferring to be out of the glaring light of the early afternoon sun. The brief moment he'd stepped out into the light had been uncomfortable at best, and he'd retreated back to the shadows of the buildings. Being in the Undercity so long must have gotten to him. Just looking at the bright sunlight made him blink repeatedly. It made his skin crawl too. Most unpleasant. 

The shady haven of the doorway gave him a place to rest a moment. For the latter part of his trip through the Undercity, nagging discomforts were getting too strong to be ignored. He was shivering. Hard. It had started back in the forest, but he hadn't truly taken note of it until after the incident with the little girl. Then he'd attributed it to nervousness and possibly fear. But the shivering didn't stop when the undead child was far behind. It had grown worse. 

Now he was huddled in the doorway, shaking and rubbing his arms as if it would restore some heat. The sun shone indifferently overhead, and he was shivering like he was caught in the middle of a blizzard. It couldn't possibly be that cold in Leá Monde. He couldn't still be disturbed over that dead child. Even if he was, this was far more than a mental chill. He FELT the cold. He was visibly shivering for no reason. Perhaps he'd picked up some sickness that festered in the city along with the demons. In his mind, that was a worse fate than being killed by the monsters themselves. At least he could fight them. He had some knowledge of healing arts, but not the experience or ingredients to make something to fight a deadly illness. 

Several minutes of sitting in the doorway shivering made him want to forget about everything and stay here. The persistent cloud of slight confusion remained, further attesting to some kind of illness. It made him want to forget about Riot, Sydney, and escaping the city, and just sit here waiting for the weariness and shivering to go away. It whispered to him to rest a little. He hadn't really rested since...hours ago. Just rest a minute. Just under the shivering stopped. He'd be fine in a minute if he rested... 

The soothing, wordless suggestions were tempting, certainly. Grissom wanted very badly to rest. His eyes were closed already, as if he'd fall asleep any second. The only thing that kept him from doing just that was the loud crack of a door opening further down the street. 

Grissom opened his eyes in time to see Riot slip into the door and close it behind him. 

That made him stand immediately, shivering or no. It was as hard to stand as it had been in the forest clearing, but the doorway lent him support until he was steadier on his feet. Riot. He was right THERE. God must have been with him after all. He could have searched this city for hours or days without every seeing a trace or Riot, and the man had walked right in front of him. This was too good. Too perfect. 

Grissom made his way to the heavy wood door the man had disappeared into. It involved crossing a good deal of the street in the sunlight, but that didn't make him hesitate. It was odd. The light didn't physically hurt him, but it made him uncomfortable. Too warm. Too bright. Too glaring. It stung his eyes. 

Even that discomfort couldn't knock back his eagerness. He could almost feel the weight of his amulet around his neck again, and see the look on Riot's hateful face when he avenged his brother's death. It was so CLOSE. Once he'd done his duty to his brother and himself, he could finally find some of the Knights and deliver the final blows to Müllenkamp before getting out of this wretched city. 

It took Grissom a few tries to get the door open due to rust on the hinges, but it finally popped open. The storage rooms of the city walls lay beyond. He stepped in. God, he could practically FEEL Riot's presence. It almost let him ignore the shivering. 

That didn't last long. Before he got through more than two rooms he was shivering harder than ever. The very air of the city seemed to sap his strength and turn his blood to ice in his veins. Fighting Riot in this condition was sure to send him to his death. For real this time. The Riskbreaker wouldn't leave him for dead twice. 

If that occurred to Grissom, he didn't care. 

The next few rooms were a blur of featureless stone. His vision was swimming, and his mind refused to focus on anything. In fact, he knew nothing else until he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees on the cold stone floor. 

Grissom blinked a few times and looked as far up as he could raise his head. The surroundings had faded to the icy blue glow of the Undercity and he hadn't even realized it. Back down here, in the haunting, unearthly glow of those magick lamps, with the wailing of souls that got louder with each second... Returning to the place would have made him shiver if he weren't practically convulsing as it was. 

The intense shaking wouldn't allow him to stand again. Perhaps it really was convulsing rather than mere shivering. The cold that enveloped him was painful, crippling, and getting worse. 

Grissom couldn't stand it any longer. He struggle with his gloves a moment before he was able to tear them off. He rubbed his hands together vigorously in an attempt to warm them. He blew on them a little, but even his breath felt cold as the ice. Logically, if it was an illness, the attempt at warming would do nothing to help. 

Logically. If he were thinking logically it might have mattered. 

Grissom was still shivering when he collapsed, but it had reached its peak already. A few minutes later and he wasn't moving at all. 

***** 

"A pulse, Tieger. Is there a bloody PULSE?" 

"Neesa, be calm." 

"I am calm. Just find a pulse." 

"If there's one to be found." 

Neesa leaned one arm on her hammer as she kneeled slightly. She ignored her warrior's sense and common sense for once and kept searching for a pulse that wasn't there. Tieger was doing the same. The man's fingers were searching Grissom's neck for the faintest hint of life. 

She traced the veins on Grissom's left wrist, feeling nothing. His dead-cold flesh killed hope immediately. It was the chill of someone who had been dead for hours. Even the fatal wound was staring her in the face. A sword slash through the chest. The entry couldn't be seen without turning him over, but it had torn out through his back. The bleeding had long since stopped. A very bloody injury, yet there was none on the ground around him. Had he been attacked elsewhere and somehow made it here? 

This discovery was another horribly ironic surprise for Leá Monde to throw at their feet on top of everything else. Corpses that walked, Dark magick coming out of the stonework, monsters --ones that existed only in FAERIE TALES!-- crawling out of every shadow... And now a comrade's bloody corpse sprawled on the floor like it was deliberately left for them to find. 

Neesa had almost put her worries about Grissom from her mind when she and Tieger came here hunting the Riskbreaker. They had hoped to find him once they dealt with Riot. Three Crimson Blade commanders would be a formidable force for anything they'd encountered in the city. Whether she respected it or not, Grissom was well versed in the Dark Arts. That alone made him a match for most enemies, human or otherwise. 'Bending evil to serve God', one of the hypocritical clerics had called the use of the Dark Arts by the Knights. 'Fire with fire.' Nice logical arguments that meant little. But if it helped him stay alive, good for the bloody Dark. 

It hadn't helped. Grissom had thrown himself against something far beyond his abilities. 

"Cold as the grave..." Neesa observed grimly. She leaned down further, stray strands of short white hair dangling in her face. She listened near his chest for a moment. No breathing to be felt or heard. 

Tieger gave up on looking for a pulse a moment later. No pulse. No nothing. He'd been dead, and dead for a while at that. 

"Ach, he's gone..." 

Neesa nodded slowly. They'd already known he was stone cold dead. The chill of the corpse and the unusual greyish tint of the skin had been more than obvious. Another one of their Brothers dead. 

The echoing blue stairway to the depths of the Undercity was strangely quiet. Tieger's fingers traced the Rood cross in the air, an old sign to ward off evil. If the city had a voice, it would have laughed at the pitiful superstitious gesture. 

Neesa stared at his still corpse a moment, unmoved. She had no tears for him. He'd brought it on his own bloody self with plunging into the Dark Arts. Hypocritical cleric. 'Fire with fire' indeed. More like 'play with fire and get burned'. She couldn't properly pity him when, knowing Grissom, he'd brought an easily avoided fight on himself. Fools perished in Leá Monde. It was as simple as that. 

Her hardened warrior persona shifted from the rationale and skepticism. It loosened its tight control enough for her to feel the hollow ache in her heart, for Grissom and Duane both. Fools or not, they were dead. They had no kin left to mourn for them. A moment's silence was all they could afford to give, and barely that. There was no time to worry about the dead when the fate of those still living was uncertain enough. 

Yet that silence was painful. It hurt to know they were condemned to a fate worse than death, the incomplete death and eternal wandering for the souls of Leá Monde. Such a fate Neesa wouldn't wish on any but her most hated enemies. To know a comrade suffered it was disturbing. Death was supposed to be a release for friend and foe alike, not eternal damnation to hopeless wandering. 

The sharp bang of the door at the bottom of the stairs flying open shattered the respectful silence that had established itself. 

Neesa looked up from staring at the blood on Grissom's back. The door had been roughly pushed open, the man not bothering to mask his presence. He was glancing back into the room beyond the door, and didn't notice them at first. Neesa knew him immediately. Riskbreaker. Ashley Riot to be precise. The Riskbreaker that killed and injured an untold number of the Knights, raised hell everywhere he went in this city, possibly in league with Sydney... 

The VKP scum that killed Duane and Grissom. 

Riot noticed them only after he'd entered the room. He stopped, his hand still on the door, but he pushed it no further. His eyes met with Tieger's. 

In that brief second where everyone was frozen, Neesa's quick warrior mind analysed every detail of his body looking for potential weaknesses. A slightly dented circular shield hung by a worn leather strap from his left arm. His sword arm had what appeared to be a hagane rapier, suspiciously like those used by the Crimson Blades. Stolen most likely. There was enough flesh exposed to see numerous half-healed cuts and bruises lacing his skin from legs to head. A gash on his shoulder. Potential weak point. Blood on his shorts from some injury, perhaps new perhaps old. Another potential weak point. His unusual hair and clothes were was matted with sweat, dirt, and blood of every place he'd been and every creature he'd encountered. He certainly had the look of a man who'd been fighting for his life every second for half a day now. Unfortunately, he didn't seem tired or weakened by the exertion. He was as dangerous as if he'd just stepped into the city from VKP headquarters. 

"You..." Tieger growled. His axe whipped into his hands in a second, like it were a hand axe rather than a massive double-sided sabre. "You did this!" His booming voice was painfully loud in the closed space of the Undercity stairwell. It actually made Riot tighten his grip on his sword and take a step back out the door. 

"You killed him." Neesa rose as she spoke, easily hoisting her pick-pointed hammer in her hands. There would be new blood on it soon. 

Riot took a step back. The man looked slightly confused. Of course, he didn't know them. They'd never had the pleasure of crossing weapons before. Most who met Neesa and Tieger for the first time in battle lived very short lives after the 'introduction'. Lives measured in seconds. 

This Riskbreaker looked good. He might last as long as a few minutes. 

Tieger slammed his axe into the wall hard enough to send a small tremor through the room. A large chunk of brick fell out and shattered on the floor. "You will pay in BLOOD." 

The sight of two Crimson Blades advancing on him must have been intimidating, even for the Riskbreaker. He took another hesitant step back, mentally debating whether to fight or flee. Surely the man was a warrior. Warriors knew when to retreat. Perhaps he was smarter than Neesa gave him credit for. Fight or flee. 

He chose the latter. The wooden door crashed closed as he fled. 

Neesa and Tieger were faster. In the time it took him to slam the door, they were at the bottom of the stairs. The Riskbreaker would not escape. His blood would adorn Neesa's hammer this day. 

Riot was fast, both in and out of battle. But his retreat into the Undercity wasn't swift enough. Before he'd crossed the great plaza in the room beyond, the Blades had the door open. Even with the slight delay opening the heavy wooden door, Tieger quickly caught up with him. One-handed, he slammed his axe down on the stone floor. Riot had to duck and roll to the side to avoid it. Neesa rounded the other side and swung her hammer in a loose arc to drive him back another few feet. He was trapped between them now. 

The plaza was larger than most in the Undercity, but still no different than the rest of the eerie section of Leá Monde. There was a faint 'drip-drip' somewhere in the distance that stopped every now and then for long periods of time. The wind whistled through cracks in the stone, creating a strange background commotion. When the city still lived, it had been one of the busiest plazas. There was sometimes entertainment here, musicians or actors or parlour-trick magicians playing the crowd as much as their trade to make a few coppers. If there were anyone left to watch, the three standing in the plaza now would have been as interesting as anything ever seen here. 

"Riskbreaker..." Neesa said with a glance at Tieger. From the descriptions the Knights gave, she'd half expected a real live titan. Riot was a far cry from that. She looked him over for a second time as he got up again with his thin sword held expertly in his right hand. She was sure to meet his eyes. Warrior's eyes. They held no fear, just slight confusion that was rapidly being extinguished. Whatever he was confused about, he knew not to dwell on it when he was very likely going to plunge into a battle. 

"You killed our Brother," Neesa said calmly. Stating a simple fact rather than throwing an accusation. 

Riot stared back at her, considering, and eventually decided to respond. "Grissom..." 

"Yes. Grissom. And Duane. And more of our Knights than I can count." 

The Riskbreaker glared back defiantly, as expected. "I survive, Blade. If your...people...attack me, I will carve them. The same applies to you and anything in this city. Step aside and leave me be if you value your life." 

The threat slid past unnoticed, but Neesa saw a lot in that glare. He had every intention of carrying out his threats if they attacked him. Confident, to say the least. He had the look of a warrior without a doubt. There was a weariness and distant pain there too, like there was something he couldn't quite push from his mind entirely. He'd seen something that stuck with him. That was hardly surprising. Everyone in the city who survived was sure to come away with a memory that seared their very soul to the core, and would haunt them the rest of their lives. Riot had seen his and more. At least the rest of his life would not be very long to endure it. 

"Worry about your own life," Tieger warned him. "You have damned souls today." 

"Nothing less than they deserved." 

Both Blades shifted slightly when Riot moved his sword. He merely used the tip of the rapier to pull back the white cloth that covered his chest. A ugly, half-healed magical burn stood out just below his ribs. 

"Fine clerics who sell themselves to the Dark Arts." 

"Hush, Riskbreaker," Neesa said, still relatively calm. "Listen carefully..." 

Riot looked at her skeptically. The Undercity was silent around them. Every now and then in the distance there was a faint rush of wind, dripping water, shuffling movement, and a few noises that were impossible to guess at. 

"The wand'ring ones scream for your blood," she told him, taking another step toward him across the damp stone. 

Riot backed into a defensive stance. "One more step and you will converse with your...your 'wand'ring ones'...personally. I'll see to it myself if you--" 

Tieger lunged forward without warning. His massive axe hung overhead, then slammed down to cleave Riot in two. 

The Riskbreaker dodged by inches and backed up a few more steps before Tieger completed the swing. The echo of the axe hitting the floor echoed in the room. A massive crack appeared in the stone where Riot had been standing. 

Tieger hefted the axe back into his hands and brought it up again without hesitation. "You'd best listen to them, boy. You'll scream with them!" 

The axe swung again. The Riskbreaker easily dodged that one, but fell into Neesa's range at the same time. She swung, he dodged. Almost. The very tip of her pointed hammer scraped across his side lightly. First blood was hers. 

***** 

Voices. Whirling, swirling, writhing, shouting all around in every voice imaginable. They spoke no understandable words, yet their emotions could be felt with devastating clarity. The raw pain of open, ever-bleeding wounds on the souls that would never heal. They made their pain known. They spoke and there was no choice but to hear. It couldn't be understood, but it could be heard. 

They were all around. In the walls, in the air, whispering in his ears, screaming inside his head. They shouted with the voice of an avalanche, cried with tears of unspeakable agony, mumbled soft as a babbling brook, and laughed with voices that cut through him like daggers. 

The laughter was the worst. It was mocking. Cruel. It knew something he didn't. 

It was frightening. 

Even when he blindly stumbled to his feet they didn't turn off immediately. They didn't leave but, reluctantly, they did back off. They faded to a muted whisper that could have been mistaken for the wind. When he was at last standing, swaying from side to side slightly, they were all but ignored. Regaining consciousness had banished them to the very edge of his perception, but a great deal of coherent thought went with them. 

It was cold. He'd never felt so cold in his life, yet the chill was so...distant. He could sense how deeply cold he was, but it seemed to be a mental sensation rather than physical. His body wasn't shivering in the slightest. Just...twitching. 

Physical perception of cold wasn't the only thing lost to him. Through a distorted mind, he could sense the lack of sensation in his body. Everything was there, but it all seemed far away. Movement was no reassurance. Oh, he could move. Barely. His body was very limp and unresponsive, like every limb was asleep. 

As soon as he tried to descend the stairs he lost control. His legs gave out and he fell. Fortunately, there was a platform of a step three stairs below. He landed on his hands and knees on the rough stone step. It hurt much less than he should have considering he struck his head on the stone platform when he landed. He didn't try to get up immediately. The only thoughts getting through were of how cold he was, and a distant voice wondering why he was having so much trouble moving. 

The muted whispering rose. Voices blended together in his head. They taunted and prodded and begged at him, and he didn't truly 'hear' any of it. 

A jolt of magic in the air slapped his mind back into place as harshly as a slap across the face. 

The voices retreated again. The cold and numbness did not, and he was left to wonder. 

"He follows." 

A real voice this time, clear as a church bell in the morning. 

"I know. We teleport again if he catches up." 

"And if we fight him again?" 

"We cannae' do it. You felt his strength. It won't be worth the scars we'd come out with. I say leave him for the bloody city. It'll take him, right enough." 

"Aye... But leaving him be does not set well with--" 

The room was in a dead silence all of a sudden. 

Tieger. Neesa. Grissom knew the voices and recognized them like a godsend. 

His body was too numb to let him stand, but he fought his way to one knee and looked up to the top of the stairs. Tieger. Neesa. He mentally repeated the names. If they helped him escape this wretched place, he'd pray for them until the day he died. 

It was only now occurring to him how much he needed help. If he hadn't believed there was some sickness attacking him, he did now. It was all he could think to explain his body turning on him like this. 

No words came to his tongue as he looked at them. His mouth moved clumsily, but the words refused to form. Illness... The numbness and disorientation and the horrible, insane chill... Yes, he was sick. They could help him. They WOULD. A godsend. They would help. 

His comrades looked... 'Shocked' was the best word for it. Both had blood-stained weapons clenched in their hands, and they held them in defensive positions. Neesa had a horrible scowl on her face, but it flickered with surprise and a little uncertainty. Tieger wore the fierce look Grissom had seen on him countless times when he waited for a foe to make the first move. 

His mouth moved more easily now. Words came. They didn't come easy or clear, but they came. "Thank G-God..." he breathed. "P-pleassse....tis a...sccchikneth..." 'Sickness' slurred horribly when it came out. "...sccchiknesss..." he tried again, cursing his clumsy speech. "...sickneth...sickness..." 

They stood there staring at him, but didn't respond or make any move to help him. If anything they backed away. 

"Wait, I..." He put all his effort into standing up, but his body didn't want to do what it was told. It wouldn't stay standing. Any time he half-managed it, it sagged like a marionette with no strings holding it up. "W-wait..." he repeated. "I...I n-need yeeuu--...your help, B-Brother... Sister...." 

They looked at each other. Grissom didn't understand the strange looks passing between them. They looked almost afraid. 

Tieger made the sign of the Rood cross and mouthed something Grissom knew all too well. 

God have mercy. 

Grissom didn't understand, but it wasn't a new feeling. Nothing of the last few hours made sense, and it all came very dream-like to him. It still did. It was starting to seem like some cruel joke that everyone but him was in on. Was it now his turn to be toyed with by Leá Monde? 

"A m-moment, I am...." He tried again to stand, and fell back to his knees with a dull thud on the stone floor. "I... My body...does not cooperate. A moment, it...it will p-pass.... Surely it will p-pass..." The last was almost a question. 

There was a loud creak of rusty hinges. Neesa and Tieger's attention flickered to something behind him, and their uneasy battle stances shifted. 

Grissom's next attempt to stand was successful. More so. He was still unsteady on his feet. His shoulders wanted to slouch over, so he held his arms out at his sides a little. That aided his balance, so it was just as well. He turned. 

Ashley Riot stared back at him. 

Grissom took a step back, almost tripping on a crack in the stone. 

"Y-yeeeuuu!!" 

A surge of intense hate and rage made him ignore how slurred the word came out. Riot. Riot was right there! That made him realize he was weaponless. The iron staff from the Undercity was up on the top step with Tieger and Neesa, exactly where it had clattered when he collapsed. No matter. With Riot so close, he could sear his flesh with a spell before the man knew what was happening. He would see the Riskbreaker DEAD, his brother avenged, and his amulet returned from the thief's hands. 

Riot looked between the three of them, but his attention focussed most on Grissom. Strangely, he seemed more surprised than battle-ready. Another strange look to rival Neesa and Tieger's. Were those looks all directed at him? Illness must have done hell to his appearance already. That or his wounds were outstanding. Strange, he couldn't feel them very much. No matter. Riot would die and nothing would-- 

"Grissom..." 

Neesa's voice. Grissom feared to take his eyes off Riot, but he glanced back to his comrades. Her expression was the grimmest he'd ever seen. Why was she distracting him when Riot was standing right there? 

"Grissom." 

Repeating his name. She closed her eyes a second, but didn't continue right away. It all seemed very...disbelieving. Amazed. 

It was Tieger who picked up when she didn't continued immediately. He shook his head sadly, the way he did when finding a Knight dead after all attempts at reviving him failed. "Brother, I am sorry.... We cannot help you now." 

"Then s-stand back! I'll kill this dog myschelffff--...myself!" Grissom's voice was stronger now. His body was easier to move, though still very uncooperative. "I needn't have your weapons to d-deal with him... If you shall not help, do not interfere." 

Riot tensed slightly, but only watched. It was all very unsettling. 

"You do not understand, lad..." Tieger began slowly. 

"W-what is there to understand?" 

Strange sensations were creeping over him again. Pins-and-needles pricking on his numb flesh. 

"Brother, look at yourself." 

Uneasiness rose in Grissom's mind. "Look...?" 

He looked at his hands and for the first time, saw that the gloveless flesh was deathly pale. 

"W-what is this? What is h-happening...?" He looked around at the blue tinted walls as if they'd tell him his answers, then back to his hands again. Illness. How bad WAS this wretched sickness? 

"Grissom." 

Neesa said his name a third time. This time she found the right words to continue. 

"You are dead. The Dark has taken you. You are one of the cold ones. You are killed, dead as the stones." 

When the situation was grave, she never softened it with kind words. She got straight to the heart of it, devastatingly so. This was no exception. 

No one spoke for a moment after. Even Riot was just standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching the situation play itself out. 

Every word sliced like glass shards, but Grissom only stared at his death-pale hands. Confusion. Horror. Fear. Everything was taking its turn. His hands twitched, but it quickly fell into a steady, quivering rhythm. Trembling. 

She couldn't mean... It couldn't be... 

It was just an...an illness, not... 

His entire body was shaking now. 

When Neesa saw her words had indeed gotten through to some degree, she sighed slightly. 

"An ironic fate..." 

The cold. The stiffness and uncooperativeness of his body. His body... The confusion of the last few hours had blinded him to his body. It had a lot to show him, and not just in the death tone of his skin. Had he felt his heart beat at all since he awoke? Had he been breathing when he wasn't speaking? He hadn't noticed a bit of it. Dear God, why hadn't he noticed...? 

It couldn't be. Couldn't be. He waited to feel his heartbeat and prove them all wrong. He was as still as he could be when he was trembling so hard, waiting for a little thump to send warm blood through his body. 

"Better than the endless wand'ring, I suppose..." 

It didn't come. It never would. He wanted to beat his chest over his heart and force it to pulse with blood. It wasn't beating. His heart wasn't BEATING! It sent a scary jolt through him that was mental rather than physical. Tiny, individual horrors were building up. He hadn't yet accepted the worst of all. 

He was cold. His skin was death-pale. His heart wasn't beating. 

The realizations were building up entirely too fast. 

But his soul was HERE. His flesh was HERE. He was not one of the cold ones! He'd seen them all over this place in every form imaginable. They couldn't think, couldn't FEEL, and he still suffered both very keenly. Why?! If he was dead, why was he still in his own body?! Why was his soul anchored down to this wretched place?! The soul was supposed to die and pass from this world, reach the next life, and continue forever and ever, amen, so help you God. Not linger in this cursed city trapped in dead flesh. 

'The Dark has filled you...' 

No... 

'You have joined the cold ones.' 

NO! 

_Yes._

_Banish your denial and see the truth._

"...but to happen upon your own corpse!" 

That hit Grissom as hard as a physical blow. 

This time he fell to his knees by his own will. The cleric covered his head with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to shut out everything. Tieger's sad look. Neesa's level one, and her strong, accented voice telling him something he didn't want to know. The faint voices at the back of his mind whispering so many things he couldn't pick them. Riot standing there, a gawking onlooker watching the horror unfold. His own hands. God, he wanted to see nothing... Hear nothing, see nothing. 'Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil...' 

The horrible truth wouldn't be silenced. It cut into his unbeating heart, and the faint voices laughed wickedly at the pain. 

Grissom shuddering drew a breath he no longer needed. 

He screamed. 

He screamed as loud and long as his body would allow. A tormented wail that would rival anything the wandering ones could manage. It cut into the very souls of those who heard, even Riot. 

For everyone who survived Leá Monde, each would take a memory of this place seared into their soul forever. For some, their first sight of the cold ones would haunt them. Perhaps the sight of the cathedral or the haunting glow of the Undercity would be the brand of Leá Monde. Tieger and Neesa had been in Leá Monde all day. They saw the cold ones, knew enough of the city's story. They felt the oppressive atmosphere of disaster and faintly sensed a sliver of the presence and pain of the wandering souls. What little they knew, Grissom's scream made up for. This moment would stay with them 

The anguished scream finally cracked and died away. Grissom remained hunched over, hands on his head and fingers tangled in his blonde hair. He did his best to obscure his face from those watching him, but he could feel them watching. The slight shift in his trembling and the tiny sounds that escaped made it seem like he was sobbing. It would have been an immense relief to do so, but he couldn't seem to bring forward any tears. Horror and fear were stronger. 

There was movement on the top steps. Tieger took a half-step toward him, very cautiously, as if approaching a wounded dog that might decide to bite. Grissom silently screamed for him to stay away. Being gawked at by three people was making him tense enough. The absolute last thing he wanted was for them to so much as approach him. 

Neesa stopped him with a firm hand on the shoulder-plate of his armour. "Halt..." she said quietly. "You said it yourself, we can not help him." 

"Then we leave him? Do we abandon him and let the city claim his soul?" 

"It owns it already. He is dead, he--" 

"Dina' even know he was dead. Part of him still lives." 

"For the good it does. How long until he becomes like the...the others?" 

"Ach, how would I know that? Perhaps his death might be completed before--..." 

"Leá Monde already holds his soul fast to its stones... And the cold ones may not leave. The Paling seals them." 

Grissom stopped listening after that. It was irritating that Neesa and Tieger spoke as if he could no longer hear or understand them. But he didn't care enough to do so anyway. 

Ignoring reality made him turn inward. It was no relief. 

The distant voices in his mind were not so distant any more. The only grew louder, and refused to be silent for even a moment. Either madness had claimed him as well as death, or there was some truth to Sydney's talk of the nature of Leá Monde. There really were screaming souls everywhere, and he was hearing them. He hadn't heard to much as a whisper before, and now half the city was yelling for his attention. He almost screamed at all of them to be silent, the damned souls and his former comrades both. He wanted silence so badly, and none of them would let him have it. 

_ ...kill..._

The jabbering voices scattered. 

That startled Grissom. His clenched hands released his hair and dropped to his sides as he looked around the room. Riot still standing there stupidly. Neesa and Tieger still at the top of the stairs. Stones and dust bathed in pale blue light. Nothing changed. Nothing out of the ordinary for Leá Monde. 

_ ...kill them._

It came again. A presence as much as a voice. It spoke in single, solid ideas and images more than words, but he 'heard' it loud and clear. 

"W-who...?" 

Grissom looked around again. Neesa and Tieger no longer spoke, and Riot was still wisely keeping his distance. All eyes were on Grissom, and he paid them no attention whatsoever as he searched for the source of the voice. 

_ ...kill, Grissom._

'Hearing' his name did nothing to reassure him. 

"...who speaks? S-show yourself..." 

_ ...you feel fear..._

"I say 'show yourself'! I do not speak to faceless voices!" 

_ ...fear..._

"WHO SPEAKS?!" He looked around wildly, but there was nothing to see. Such a 'voice' was impossible to imagine coming from a person. It was like it came from...from the very floors and walls and every dead stone around. 

"The walls...?" he mumbled, a contrast to the piercing yell a second ago. "The walls...they speak...?" 

_ ...you fear your fate... You fear for your soul... The Dark smothers it. It chokes your soul...wraps itself around your memories...clouds your mind... It would have you forget... and you fear it..._

That hit Grissom harder than he would have expected. It was close enough to the truth to be frightening in itself. 

"Cease..." he said quietly, almost a whisper. 

_ ...you fear. You are...bitter... ...you know your fate...you are right to fear it. The loneliness...the pain...it will eat you alive..._

"CEASE! Silence!" 

"Who does he talk to...?" 

He wasn't sure if it was Neesa or Tieger who said that. The voice in his mind didn't stop. 

_ Would you suffer this alone? Would you be alone, Grissom?_

"I--... Stop..." 

_ You will be alone among thousands of souls... Alone... Your 'friends' see your pain and abandon you to it..._

"...you lie..." 

"He talks to no one..." 

Neesa's voice. 

"Is he mad?" 

Tieger's. 

_ ...kill them... Why must they enjoy life when you are damned? ...are they better than you? More deserving? They should join you... Join US... Kill them. The pain...your pain...it will lessen when they are silenced._

Grissom laughed out loud at the voice. A very weak and forced laugh. "HA! Blood cannot soothe this... I'd drown in it first." 

_ ...you would be hurt more... You friends will kill you. They see naught but the cold ones... ...they will kill you and butcher your flesh, Grissom. They will rip your soul from your body...carve you with their weapons...leave your dead husk for the nearest soul to steal... Even now they crowd around, waiting for your flesh.... See them, feel them.... They smother you even now...._

Grissom looked down at his bare hands, tensed and trying to grip the stone floor. His flesh... His body... It was dead. His heart no longer beat, there was no warmth... But he possessed it yet. His soul lived even if his body did not. His life was gone, but his flesh remained. His body was all he had. It was all that kept him from crossing over completely into the sea of homeless spirits that flowed through the city in a flooded ghostly river. His soul would be drowned in that if he left his dead body. A body...THIS body...was the only safe haven from it. 

Grissom's hands twitched a little. God help him, he was NOT giving up his body. If he was to be damned in Leá Monde, he'd keep his OWN skin. Any who tried to take it from him could have the wandering fate that, in his mind, he'd narrowly avoided. 

Grissom looked from the corner of his eye and saw Neesa and Tieger, weapons ready, advancing on him. Battle ready. They were going to use those weapons, or were expecting to at the least. 

_ You see? You SEE?! They will cleave your soul from your flesh and leave it for the scavenging souls. They will steal your life once again! Your friends DAMN you! They despise you, they would kill you! Save your soul and KILL them! KILL THEM ALL!!!_

The 'voice' was screaming at him now. Beyond the semblance of words, its blood lust and anger practically vibrated in his mind. 

Those feelings was becoming Grissom's without him realizing it. All he could think when he looked at Tieger and Neesa was that they were going to kill him. Their weapons were ready. They were coming closer. They abandoned him to his fate, and now they would steal his body from him! He'd kill them. Riot too, even though thoughts of revenge and his amulet had been overpowered. 

"Thieves..." 

Undeath was kinder to Grissom than it was to most. In contrast to the moaning, shuffling zombies who were slow and painfully unintelligent, he was neither. His mind, as muddled as it was, was still capable of thought. He'd certainly been as slow and clumsy as one of the undead a moment ago, but there was new strength as he approached the bare edge of madness. 

In the time it took for Tieger and Neesa to take one step towards him, he was on his feet and rushing at them. 

Neesa's hammer was taking a swing at him long before he reached them, but it didn't matter. Minor injuries were of no concern to him. Grissom took the hammer full in the side and kept coming. It hurt distantly, and knocked him off balance a moment, but neither mattered. Undeath also gave him amazing pain tolerance. He rammed into Neesa and shoved them both against the nearest wall, almost falling over the wide flight of stairs in the process. Her hammer fell to the ground at her feet and clattered down a few steps. 

One of Grissom's hands was already holding her by the shoulder of her uniform, clenching the thin fabric tight. His other pale hand shot forward and caught her thin throat. A second later he had both hands wrapped around. 

Her skin... It was so soft. So warm. So goddamn WARM. She still had a heart that pumped lifeblood. Her body hadn't given out on her. She didn't hear the...the damned WALLS demanding blood. She hadn't been betrayed by everything important to her. She wasn't a bloody CORPSE. 

That last thought made Grissom tighten his hands around her throat. 

Neesa immediately grabbed his arms and tried to tear them from her throat. It was a shock to find how strong he was. She pulled at his arms, gouged at his face, and even tried to apply pressure enough to fracture his wrist. Nothing had any effect. He either moved to dodge it or ignored it altogether. He sneered at her and her pitiful attempts to break free that would have succeeded with anyone else. 

"My body...is MINE," he snarled. His hands tightened more. 

Half a second later, Tieger's axe was racing toward him. 

It would have been easy enough to swing Neesa out to take the blow for him, but Grissom shoved her instead. They both crashed to the ground and the axe took a chunk out of the wall. The two Blades were sprawled on the steps now. Grissom's hands hadn't loosened a bit. Neesa was trying to gouge at his face, and having no success. Her dark skin was turning an unhealthy shade from lack of air. The Walls still roared at him to kill, and screamed for him to just break her neck and be done with it. Kill her, move on the Tieger and Riot. Just break her neck and-- 

Movement behind. Grissom looked back in time to see Riot jump the last few steps in twos, and cleave his sword down. The blade hit its mark before he could think of dodging. It sliced into Grissom's back near his shoulder blade. 

That startled him more than hurt him, but he did release Neesa. 

When he stumbled away from her and tried to back off, Tieger's axe swung again. It sliced through his elbow. THAT he felt. Undeath didn't make him immune to pain by any stretch of the imagination. A blow that cleaved all the way to the bone wasn't going to be ignored. The new agony mand him screamed and dart his other hand over to cradle his elbow. He backed off and retreated to the top of the stairs. The voice raged at him louder when he retreated. They screamed at him over and over to kill, kill, KILL THEM ALL NOW!!! 

Below, the three were recovering from the brief attack. Riot eyed Grissom and hefted his sword again. Tieger stuck his arm out to block the Riskbreaker, and gave him a glare that said 'this is not your affair, stay out of it.' Riot backed off, slowly. From the new small wounds that covered both of them, it seemed they'd done battle and had a mutual wish not to repeat it. So long as Riot stayed out of the way, Tieger wouldn't care less about him. 

A few feet away, Neesa was already snatching up her hammer again. The attack seemed to have done no real damage to her, but she rubbed her neck uncomfortably as she glance from Tieger to Grissom. She removed her hand. There were bruises on her neck. 

Grissom, still the center of attention, slowly released his wounded arm. There wasn't much bleeding, but enough to make his hand stick to his shirt a little. Those bruises were his doing. He'd just tried to kill Neesa. 

The Walls screamed for him to finish the job. His comrades would kill him. They wanted him dead. They had to die. 

"Thieves..." he muttered deliriously. "My flesh, my soul...is mine... You shall not steal it..." 

"Mad..." Neesa breathed. 

Tieger shook his head slightly. "We steal nothing from you, Brother." 

"Lies! You would kill me!" 

"No. We would not kill you, it is already done." 

"Grissom, look at yourself," Neesa ordered, an edge in her voice just short of yelling. "You are dead. We would only grant you mercy. Battlefield mercy, Father Grissom. You are beyond help." 

Mercy... 

"Keep your mercy," he spat. 

_ KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL THEM!!!_

The crushing command roared orders in his head and demanded he follow. 

He seized his head in both hands, shaking it from side to side. That 'voice' wouldn't leave. It was getting stronger. The subtlety and silky words from earlier were gone. Now it ordered and he was to listen and obey. 

More realizations were creeping up on him. It wasn't just the voice of walls or souls. Leá Monde itself was screaming at him. His body was his own, but his soul.... His soul belonged to the city, and it was eager for more blood, more souls... 

Too much. Too many things pounding him at once. If it kept up he really would go mad. 

Neesa, Tieger, and Riot below. They wanted him dead. The Walls all around. They wanted him to kill and submit to... Oh God, they wanted him to truly be one of the cold ones. They wanted another mindless undead to claim more souls for them. 

Death on one side, damnation on the other. Grissom did all he could do with them pressing from both sides. 

The door behind him was already opened a crack. He darted through and was fleeing back through the tunnels before the shouts raised behind him. 

"Grissom!!!" 

Neesa. Tieger. Leá Monde. They were all screaming his name. 

Already he could hear his comrades pursuing him. He was faster, but he wouldn't lose them easily. He had no idea where he was running to, except away. 

"GRISSOM!!!" 

He ran. 

******************************************************************************

   [1]: mailto:barhaven@hotmail.com



	2. Hurt

Swan Song   
by [Amanda][1]   
barhaven@hotmail.com

Part 2: Hurt

The dead halls of the Undercity teemed with screaming spirits. The undead gave a voice to the suffering of the place. They wailed and it chilled the soul to listen. The silence was something that could only be enjoyed by the more ignorant of the living. Only those who had no ikling of ability to pay attention to the Dark were so blessed. To human ears there was only unnatural silence.

A T-shaped corridor in the underground streets of Leá Monde was settling back into semi-silence after being invaded. It was, ironically enough, named the Crossroads of Rest in Leá Monde's better days. For the living or the dead, there was anything but rest here now. A fresh corpse was half-slumped on a small flight of stone stairs leading to a boarded-up shop, leaning against an iron grate that sealed the door. The soul that filled the dead body was wracked with an agony that went beyond what even the undead should know. Certain things were not supposed to be, and a wandering soul retaining its identity so fully was one of them. The pain of incomplete death was so much different when it could be realized for what it was.

The ghostly blue glow that filled the Undercity was the deepest comfort to Grissom, yet he despised it. Blue. Cool. Soothing. It was bright, but not the way the sun was bright. The sun seared his eyes now and made him very uncomfortable. It made his dead flesh crawl. This glow didn't, it wasn't all bad. But that cursed blue glare had surrounded him only a short time ago, when his comrades told him....told him he was dead. He could hate it by association.

Dead. He was dead. 'I am dead.' He was still trying to make sense of those three little words. His mind was flipping back and forth between refusing to accept it and being completely horrified. It had been a shock to put it mildly. There wasn't a word accurate or strong enough to describe it. A 'shock'... More like...like the diagnosis of a fatal illness. No, worse. At least then you had something to look forward to. When your body was swelling or bleeding and pain was tearing body and soul asunder, you had hope that the pain could be alleviated through death.

The souls around him wailed out their pain freely without the restraint he clung to. He could try to put it into words, but had long since failed miserably. There were no words to describe the pain and confusion of death, the yearning to live, the fear and disgust and sadness that assaulted the soul until it would truly prefer nothingness over the half-death it endured. The souls were never silent, but they weren't even so bad. There were worse things here, torments for which he'd easily prefer oblivion.

_Grissom...._

"Stop... Be SILENT...." he sobbed. Figuratively sobbed. If his dead body were capable of tears, he'd be curled up in a quivering ball sobbing his unbeating heart out. Crying was beyond him now, like so many other things. His voice shook and cracked in the same way, but he was incapable of even a single tear. It would never hurt any less than this, and he'd never be able to shed a tear for himself even if he were drowning in horror and doubt and fear and self pity.

Details were mostly clear up until the voices had swept him away. Then things were fuzzy. He attacked Neesa and Tieger. They forced him back and he fled. He couldn't remember a thing between then and finally stopping here, other than he'd never run so hard in his life. It was like an endless wellspring of energy was there to give him strength and drive him on until he stopped because he was tired of doing it rather than because he was exhausted. The running blocked him from thinking. It was nothing but 'faster harder further'. But despite how far and fast he ran, the voices were there. They hadn't left him for a second.

The voices swirled all around him still, the voice of Leá Monde overpowering the background noise of restless spirits. Leá Monde's voice was so unlike the others. He wasn't even sure what it was exactly, other than it was a presence in his head that told him to kill. He'd already come to dubbing it "the Walls" to at least give the overpowering thing a name. Unlike the codes of many cults, Grissom and his church made a habit of naming the evils they couldn't understand. Names gave power in many religions. It was just as well. It wasn't going to get any less powerful if he didn't call it the Walls. No matter the name, it was there and it was going to consume his soul.

Thinking about them could have been a cue. The strong, hypnotic presence rose in his mind again, louder than before.

_ ....you needn't fear, Grissom. You are confused... We will take it away....soothe your hurting soul.... You needn't be in such pain...._

Grissom covered his ears with his shaking hands. A sharp pain stabbed at his elbow, but that couldn't make him take his hands down. At least the pain was less than it had been earlier. Tieger had nearly taken his arm off with his massive axe after he attacked Neesa. The axe cut into his elbow all the way to the bone. Yet it was healing. ('Healing' seemed a very awkward word to use, but there really wasn't a more fitting one that came immediately to mind.) A wound that nearly took his lower arm off was half healed already. The dead flesh and muscle seemed to rapidly mend itself. All he knew was that it tingled, and whenever he looked the gash was smaller than before. Why the undead would have any kind of healing ability was beyond him. The zombies roaming this place seemed to make no use of it. Leá Monde worked in strange ways. Stranger still, the wound on his chest, surrounded by a cruel stain of red, was not healing in the slightest. The hole wasn't so large, but enough to show the path Ashley Riot's sword had taken through his flesh and out his back. A fatal wound. He'd touched it to make sure it was real. His fingers sunk in deeper than intended, sending ten different kinds of pain and disgust rolling through.

Covering his ears did nothing to shut out the Walls. The voices were in his head anyway. They'd degraded to screaming commands at one point, and now they were settling back into lulling, silky words. Almost words. It was a presence more than real words, speaking in ideas and images that he understood as clear as if it were spoken. Even that was sort of fading. They were becoming more ideas and less voices. Sometimes he had trouble telling them from his own thoughts.

The futility of fighting the formless enemy was getting to him already. Everything they said burrowed its way into his thoughts and consciousness. Every time they prodded him with soft whispers to stop fighting his fate or kill someone, they touched an open wound in his mind and made it bleed harder.

The worst part was that there was a lot of reason in what they were saying. He was dead, he was possessing a corpse, therefore he was an unnatural monster and belonged to the Dark. The only purpose of their existence was to feed the city with more deaths and more souls. The fate of the damned. He ached to give in and do exactly what they suggested. When he'd attacked Neesa, there hadn't been any conflict of thought, nothing but rage and the desire to kill. He'd wrapped his hands around her neck and almost broken it. Not only killing someone...killing a COMRADE!...but doing it in such a crude way.... If Tieger and Riot hadn't interfered, she'd be dead. Grissom touched the gash on his elbow to remind himself why she wasn't.

The Walls were right about one thing. Tieger and Neesa would kill him. He firmly believed that. Even before he lost control and attacked, they'd been advancing on him with their weapons drawn. He'd done nothing but cower on the floor trying to digest the fact that he was dead, and they were going to attack him! So much for honour among Blades.

'But it's MERCY, Grissom,' his mind teased. 'They're your comrades, they do nothing but show your poor lost soul MERCY.'

Ha! Mercy! What mercy was it to steal his body from him, dead or not? What mercy was it to send his soul wandering in the sea of tortured souls that swam around him even now? Was it mercy to steal everything he had?

_Is it mercy to steal everything the soul holds dear? Who are they to judge?_

They would carve his body.... They'd butcher him and tear his soul out for Leá Monde to swallow. His incomplete death would be suffered alone even with thousands of souls around him. They cared not for his pain. No one did. If they truly had any mercy they'd help him, not bloody KILL him.

_ They do not care... Just another undead to them, another cold one to slay._

They chased him even now, calling his name. He could hear them somewhere back in the blue-tinted tunnels if he listened hard enough. They weren't going to leave him be... Images filled his mind. Visions of Neesa shattering his spine with her hammer. Tieger severing his limbs, blood dripping from his axe as he raised it to cleave his head from his body...

_KILL them..._

That made him sit up sharply, half startled. His train of thought had flowed right into their hypnotic song. Oh God...

...God, he hadn't been able to tell the Walls from his own thoughts. He hadn't been able to tell. He couldn't TELL!!!

Grissom moaned softly and slumped back against the wall. His eyes fixed up at the cold stone of the ceiling. "Why will you not be SILENT?" He tore his eyes from the stone ceiling and buried his face in his cold hands. Even now he was shocked by how cold his own body was. "S-stop this..."

_Kill...._

He was on his feet in a second, looking around wildly as if trying to find a face for his misery. The Dark. The voice of the city. Maybe insanity, plain and simple. He wasn't sure WHAT it was. It was formless, invisible. An evil embedded in the very stones of the city. And now in his soul.

"I am not DEAD!!!" he yelled to the walls. "Be silent or I...I will sssssilence yeu myschelffff--...myself!" Grissom forced himself to stop yelling at nothing and take a deep breath, a mental thing rather than physical. His words slurred slightly when he lost concentration. It was a slap in the face to remind him to get himself together when he was starting to lapse. Not that it mattered to the city. It would have laughed at his threats. He beat his fists against the cold stone wall he'd been leaning against. The rough chipped stone tore at the skin. It made him wish he still had his gloves.

"My soul lives, I am not DEAD!!! Do you HEAR ME?! I...am...not....DEAD!!!"

They didn't answer.

Eventually he stopped beating on the wall and relaxed to rest his forehead against it. He allowed his hands to slid down the rough, unyielding stone. It might as well be the walls talking. The voices would yield no more than the stones would. Barely an hour had passed and already he couldn't stand hearing those voices screaming in his head. How long was he going to have to hear them? If this truly was undeath, it could very well be a granted immortality of sorts. A long time to have murdering spirits screaming in your head. What would he do with an eternity in Leá Monde when he was ready to go insane after little more than an hour? Where would he be in another hour? A day? A month? Years? Years in Leá Monde... Yes, years. He could never leave the cursed city. He would 'die' again and wander or they would break him eventually. A simple, inevitable fact that was frightening in itself.

There was enough to scare him as it was. Complete or incomplete, death was frightening. It was still hard for him to believe he was dead. His heart didn't beat, he didn't breathe any more unless he had something to say, his flesh was so pale and cold... And yet he didn't want to believe it. He knew he was dead, but he wanted to believe otherwise. He wanted to feel a heartbeat. It was hard to imagine how much he missed that. He'd never taken notice of it in life, and now he wanted more than anything to be able to have a heartbeat and feel warm blood flowing through his veins.

The faint murmur of souls swirled around him, more noticeable now that the Walls were silent. He cocked his head slightly to listen. So many souls. So much pain. They were always wailing. Wandering. His fate too, he supposed. Or the fate Leá Monde thrust him into. Wretched city, soul-stealing God-DAMNED pile of filthy stones... Those other souls weren't worrying about being warm or having silence. But so many of them wanted to live again when they knew they couldn't, and he was no different. God, he wanted to LIVE. He wanted so badly to be alive again. Really ALIVE, not a wandering soul possessing his own dead body and manipulating it like a marionette.

Bitter thoughts crowded his mind as he pushed himself back a little from the wall. He was so desperate to live, and he hated himself for it. What in God's name did he have to live for? Fear of death was the only thing he could see. His comrades turned on him. The city was clawing for his soul. All his kin were dead. And yet he wanted to live even with nothing to live for. The only thing he had left to him was some dead flesh that wasn't really his any more. This was no longer about wanting to live. Death claimed his body and the city wanted to claim his soul.

He distantly wondered what his family would think of him if they could see him now. His brother, father, mother... Every one was still with him in his mind. Grissom really did love his family. He'd done battle with a Riskbreaker to try to avenge Duane's murder. Surely Duane wouldn't condemn him as his comrades did... But then again, Duane tended not to see things the same way he did. Were he still alive, Duane WOULD likely join Neesa and Tieger to slay him. Were he still alive. Of course, he'd see it as all for the best. Duane was sickeningly practical.

As for his father.... His father had been dead for several years, taken by an illness. When Riot roughly yanked his sword from his chest and a horrible darkness was creeping in at the corner of his vision, Grissom vaguely remembered calling out for his father. Strange, it was usually his mother he'd called out for when he was injured or scared as a child. His mother had been dead much longer, so there were precious few memories of her. A few clear memories, a face, a gentle yet strong voice... And eyes. He remembered her eyes for some reason. How bright and green they were, a trait she passed on to her sons. Her hair stood out in his memory too. The little details. Soft black hair, twisted back with shorter strands dangling free on the sides....

Dwelling on memories made him pay less attention to the things in his immediate surroundings, but he still heard the far-off echo of people yelling. Easy enough to ignore. This whole place was full of things screaming and he wanted nothing to do with any of them. They could go find their own hell. He'd etch one out for himself soon enough.

"Grissom!"

Hearing his name snapped him out of his daze. The sound was from somewhere beyond the wooden door he'd come in through. So Tieger and Neesa caught up already. Would they never leave him be? He'd been running from them for an hour, and they still refused to leave him. Why were they doing this? Grissom wanted to be alone. He wouldn't even go after them if they'd go away, but they refused to do it. There was, however, only so much of being stalked and hunted he could stand. If they insisted on keeping up the righteous, merciful, we-only-want-to-help-you facade, Grissom swore he WOULD kill them with no prompting from those bloody voices.

Even Grissom's quiet footsteps echoed when he stepped away from the walls. This place seemed built for acoustics. It amazed him that he COULD move fairly quietly. It was still so hard to move his body normally, let alone with any kind of stealth. At his worst he hadn't been able to stand up. He'd been forced to get used to it while running through the tunnels, so he was a little more practised now. It took more effort to move normally as opposed to the slow, uncoordinated way the undead tended to. It took effort just to keep his balance sometimes. Like moving his body when it was half asleep. Less so than earlier, but the feeling was there.

Grissom touched the wooden door he'd fled in through with both hands, half tempted to throw it open. Tieger and Neesa were going to find him eventually. He'd lost them for a while, but now then were in his trail again. It would only be a matter of time before they came in here. Oh, he could easily flee now and get a massive head start on them. He could escape them entirely if he was really intent on it. But an hour of listening to voices howling at his soul to kill was breaking down his will. Half of him wanted to listen to those voices and get it over with, the other half wanted to give himself over to Tieger and Neesa and their 'mercy'. They'd destroy his body and send his soul wandering. Nice mercy. An even less desirable damnation than the one he enjoyed now. But at least... At least those voices couldn't tell him to kill any more then.

Even from several stone rooms apart Grissom could hear his comrades' voices closing in. Strange. He shouldn't have been able to hear them so clearly. He half-sensed them as well, like the words were being passed in from another source. Among the irritating mass of souls, among the magick murmurings of the Dark and the whispering of the very stone of the city, he could hear something worth his attention. Listening to the city had its benefits after all.

"He must be close..."

"I'm surprised you've managed to keep on his trail."

"You know he's making no attempt at stealth."

"True... But his speed! None o' the undead are that bloody fast!"

"Do not ask me to explain how this cursed place works, Tieger. I know less of it than you do. "

Neesa.... She would smash his body to pieces. Tieger might apologize before he carved him to dog meat.

The sign of the Rood carved into the wooden door felt cold even to Grissom's dead flesh. He lightly traced the ancient design, feeling every crevice and line in the carving. It was slightly different than the design he knew, but it was a Rood. A universal religious symbol for everything that had sprung up around the Iocus priests and even things far removed from that. It took so many different variations and forms, but there was never any mistaking what it was. People wore it in every form imaginable nowadays. It was always supposed to be something so holy, so...righteous.

'Supposed'. What a strange word. A lot of things were 'supposed' to be. Souls were supposed to DIE after the body did. Religion was supposed to be a salvation from exactly this fate. It was supposed to save souls, not damn them...

It wasn't long before Grissom found himself praying feverantly under the pale blue light of a magick lamp. There were easily several people more religiously fanatical than himself in the city alone, but such intense emotional strain could only go for so long without breaking him down. He quietly whispered his prayers and pleas to God in a voice that kept cracking with strain and pent-up anguish. They rolled off his tongue easily, completely second-nature. Prayers and spells he could recite without thinking twice. There was that hypocrisy again.

He wasn't sure what he expected from praying. With Tieger and Neesa's voices so close and damnation staring him in the face every way he looked, there really was not much else he could do. God wasn't going to appear and bring him back to life. Even Saint Iocus himself hadn't been given that kind of divine intervention. Maybe he hoped to free his soul from the city. But the same old fear sang the same old tunes. Fear of dying, plain and simple. No matter what he begged for, he was afraid to die. As far as he was concerned he was not dead. Only his body was. There was a very big difference between a half life and true death.

Maybe the life was worse.

In the end, he wasn't sure what the prayers were for. Perhaps, subconsciously, for guidance. He dabbled in the Dark, but he really knew very little compared to what he should. Incomplete death wasn't a foreign concept to him, but it was something he knew very little about other than the end result of a wandering soul. This...THIS was nothing like what he'd assumed it to be.

Soft voices drifted past him, as loud as his own prayers. It would be so easy once he gave in. They would soothe his confused mind and erase every doubt and fear he had. He could wander with lulling voices around him rather than an invading presence. All he had to do was kill, and that was too easy. Kill and his soul would stop hurting. Kill and he wouldn't have to feel the petty mortal pain he still clung to. They promised him that.

His lips were still moving when he came around from the daze he'd sunk into. He stopped in mid-word and found it impossible to remember what he'd been saying.

Tieger and Neesa were close now, making enough noise to wake the dead. They weren't speaking often, but their movement alone was loud. Their very presence in the Undercity made the sea of souls a little...anxious. It was getting easier to listen to the souls. When he wanted to listen. They could be ignored comparably easily. If only the Walls were the same. They could not be blocked out and forced their way in when he tried.

It was distantly tempting to just wait here and end it all. He could stay here until his comrades found him and let them end all this. Their consciences and sense of duty would be put at ease and Grissom could leave this damned flesh for good. Wandering or not, his soul would have some small release.

If only the decision were that easy. There was a fierce desire to keep his body that overrode every shred of common sense he had. The less you have the harder you fight for it. With exactly nothing besides body and soul, he could either lay down and die or cling to it until it was torn away.

Plain sense told him to do the former. He took the latter.

Running hadn't weakened him any. Grissom darted towards the nearest door. With a rough shove his comrades were certain to hear, he pushed the door as hard as he could. It slammed against the doorframe with enough force to loosen the hinges, sending little flakes of rust fluttering down to the cold blue stone. Grissom left the door hanging open and took the passage on the other side of the room. That trick wouldn't fool Tieger and Neesa for long, if at all. But any time was better than none. This time he'd lose them completely.

Grissom broke into a run the minute he was out of the room. It was as if he hadn't run a step since he came here. He was distantly tired but in no way exhausted. Undeath left his body with too many distant sensations. Cold, tired, confused, but not quite.

Maybe it would depart eventually. God, please, let it leave. And take the voices with it.

*****

Once again, Grissom completely missed he transition of his surroundings. The blue of the Undercity faded darker and darker until it was gone and only shadows and dim, flickering yellow remained. Instinct guided his running more than sight or thought. For all the sights that registered he might as well have been running with his eyes closed. It was becoming all too easy to lose himself. When he was running he didn't have to think. When he was fighting he didn't have to think. When he let the Walls guide him he didn't have to think. Part of him wished they'd swallow his soul for good. Thinking only made the soul-numbing pain that much greater.

The next door was not merely slammed shut hurriedly to cover his tracks. He stopped quite suddenly and eased it closed for something to lean against. The room stank of rot and blood, so strong it reached him even though he did not breathe.

The usual little realizations came to him, not quite as horrifying as before. He wasn't winded at all. Exhaustion hadn't touched him. So numb, so many damned little voices jabbering around him--

Had he lost Tieger and Neesa? Even if that stupid trick in the Undercity didn't fool them a second, he must have been running fast enough to, to--

...so loud, why wouldn't they--

...Tieger? Neesa....?--

...shut up, just for a minute, please please please--

...who? Who was he running from...? Names, meaningless names, no faces...

Grissom crouched down with his back against the door, letting his hands wrap around his chest as if he were going to be violently ill any second. Perhaps his pessimistic wish had come true. Nothing made sense in his mind except someone was after him and there were voices talking that wouldn't be quiet. For a moment he struggled vainly to conjure something up. A face, a memory, anything. He couldn't manage that for more than a moment before his mind automatically drifted back to wishing for a little peace and some damned QUIET. A simple enough wish, anything more complicated lost him completely. It was colder than before, so cold he was shivering and--

...what? Shivering?

Grissom raised his death-pale hands, palms up. Not shivering. Couldn't be. Cold meant less than nothing to him now. No, not shivering. Trembling. Twitching perhaps. The significance of that didn't quite reach him.

Time passed. Counting time in seconds-minutes-hours was useless when his little internal clock was no longer counting down to his death. One minute or one hour or one DAY... Ha, what did it matter any more? All he knew was that the voices spoke and he shive--....trembled uncontrollably. Much like the trembling fits he had prior to passing out in the Undercity, only far milder. Would they continue coming and going as they pleased until, until....

Until...something.

The shaking fit faded. The confusion did not. Never had he been so utterly unable to concentrate, so dully oblivious to anything going on around him. Other than muttered ramblings humming through his mind, only childishly simple things got through. It was awfully dark here. Where was that blue glow? Sure he'd learned to hate it. But at least he could see, if it was a bit too much like looking through stained glass. Here it was just...dark. Anything more than a few feet away was near impossible to make out. Dark enough to hide a confused dying soul. He had to be deep underground, no one would ever come down here. Here in the black tunnels he could let himself quietly fade away until any thought of life was a mere muted whisper somewhere in his empty soul. It would be just another form of death. Complete death was far beyond him now, but there were other ways to die.

Grissom didn't really consider this to any great extent. Voices all around, so many souls.... The Walls or whatever they really were gently prodded at him with subtle little whispers and suggestions that were becoming more and more believable all the time. The other souls were just sort of there, drifting around aimlessly. They were not so bad a presence as the Walls, those voices. Not a pleasure to listen to, but not nearly as bloodthirsty. They didn't have a single-minded purpose as the Walls did. It was a sea of different souls. Most of them were screaming and crying in denial and horror of death. That was all he'd heard before. But there were other things to hear. Laughter appeared every now and then. He vaguely remembered hearing that before and being chilled by it. Some of the voices whispered to him or to each other, but he wasn't quite skilled enough to pick out meaning yet. It would take time to learn how to listen to them. As ludicrous as it was, he thought he heard singing in there somewhere. So many souls enduring their deaths.... He wondered if his brother was among them.

That stirred something familiar that couldn't quite penetrate the confusion. For the life of him he couldn't bring up an image of his brother. Not the faintest memory of his face, not a word to remember his voice.... Nothing.

He was shaking again.

A sort of haze fell over him, and he welcomed it. Grissom closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wooden door, letting the voices wash over him but not making an effort to pick out any one in particular. If Duane were there he'd surely have shown himself by now. Grissom could hear, Duane would have shouted at him until he listened. No, his brother had to be gone. Only Leá Monde spoke to him now.

His mind truly was muddled. A sharp thundercrack of splitting wood was barely enough to make him look up.

Shadows moved, dark little ripples in the blackness beyond. Someone there...? Yes, he could see now that his eye adjusted to the incredible darkness. Someone was hunched over a wooden crate in the act of yanking a long, thin dagger from out of the crate's cover. Splinters tore off with little echos of the first crack.

Dead yellow eyes peered at him from the dark. Undead eyes. He did not need colour to tell him that, he just...knew. It was as natural as breathing used to be. There was no doubt he was looking at one of the cold ones. There was nowhere they had not claimed.

Other eyes stared at him from the dark. Like spectators in an audience the corpses of two Crimson Blades watched him blankly. Their misfortune had been to wander down here. One was slumped against the wall as if he'd died standing there. His organs were in a pile at his feet, a soft, warm mound connected to him only by shreds of intestine. A terrified, pain-wracked expression on a blood covered face glared at Grissom.

The second Knight had no expression at all. No head for that matter.

The undead growled some meaningless threat. It was more a sound than real words, but Grissom would have heard it the same either way. The sight of the two butchered Blades grabbed at him through the apathy and confusion. This was....wrong. He should have some kind of reaction, but for the life of him he couldn't remember why.

It did touch him somewhat. It gave him an urge to do the same to this undead filth. Damn him.... Was there nowhere in this cursed city he could be left to suffer alone? If carving another zombie apart was the only way he'd secure it, he couldn't be more eager.

"Yeu'll b-bleeeeed," he stammered. His voice was failing him again, but he noticed it less and didn't try to correct himself. He rose from his couched position even as the zombie closed the gap between them. It seemed twenty different voices were yelling twenty different ways to rip him asunder. Other voices babbled away oblivious. One, perhaps his own sense, wondered why an undead was attacking him when they had not touched him earlier.

Meaningless. Not even worth consideration.

The zombie stabbed the wicked dagger at him with amazing speed and precision. The knife was angled up slightly. Ideally it would cut him open from stomach to throat. The unusual speed and skill of this one was what had killed the unfortunate Blades. After slaying legions of slow, clumsy creatures, they had not been prepared for some so quick to attack.

Grissom was equally quick to dodge. Though he didn't remember it, he'd fought enemies far quicker and more skilled.

The zombie had not anticipated that. He pitched forward a little, barely maintaining enough balance to stay upright. Grissom slammed him in the jaw hard enough to knock him flat. The surprised zombie moaned and collapsed back on the floor without a struggle.

Grissom crouched next to the twitching zombie, voices shouting at him to carve the body from around that soul. Too easy. Were all the cold ones this easily taken down?

This one was not nearly so decayed as some of the other corpses. The man's skin was the grey of undeath, and there were traces of age and decay beginning to take their toll on his dead flesh, but it was nowhere near as severe as many of the Undercity corpses. Maybe he had not been dead as long. His features were still quite intact. Stringy hair fell around his face, so dirty it was impossible to tell the actual colour. A long scar ran from his forehead to his chin on one side, probably a remainder from when he lived. The raggy clothes that clung to his body were quite ordinary. No distinctive crests or markings to tell anything about his status or profession in life.

This one was somehow different, and not just because he'd attacked Grissom in the first place. Those Knights had been tortured. Not just killed, tortured. The headless one was useless even to host a lost soul. The cold ones were merely supposed to slaughter the living and stock the city with new souls and new bodies for the Dark to use. Those two had been hacked at long after their souls had flown. The undead just did not do that.

Now all that remained was to, to.... Oh yes, cut him to pieces. Then he'd never trouble the cleric again. That wicked dagger would be perfect for the task. Grissom reached for it without the slightest hesitation.

Though only dead a few hours and losing rational thought more by the second, Grissom was able to distinguish between the forms of voices in the head. There was his own voice, not so much a conscience or ego as his own rationalizations and thoughts. It certainly did not always prod him to do the right or smartest thing. It was that voice that stirred his anger until he went on what turned out to be a suicide mission after Ashley Riot. Even when he lived there had been other voices sometimes. In his dreams he heard his mother and father, and people who had long since faded from his life. That was merely dreaming, nothing more or less.

Now he knew what hearing voices really meant. Even now the Walls or Leá Monde or the Dark or whatever the hell it was bore down on him mercilessly, so insistent that he carve the man to pieces he didn't realize the thoughts had become his own. He'd stopped translating their commands into words. It was not worth it to treat them as anything but what they were.

The voices of the city were still there like a second audience alongside the staring corpses. Most of the souls could not care less what he did and occupied themselves with screaming out their own agonies. The rare harmonies of laughter or whispers always seemed to be directed at him when they probably were not at all. Voices voices voices, never silent, always jabbering away with no purpose other than to drive him mad. So many saints claim hear the voice of God. Maybe the voice of madness was just a step away from that.

All the voices were different in some way or another. So it was a shock when a new one came out of the blue.

_~...damned Blades, fucking god-damned zealots, I'll kill you kill you KILL YOU ALL--~_

The shock of hearing the new voice out of nowhere made Grissom stop his hand an inch from the dagger. The fog of apathy and growing blood lust broke just a little. More voices...? Not the Walls, no.... Not wandering souls either. It was absolutely clear. Every word, every bit of emotion present, all came through at the same time. Such hate.... God, such intense HATE. It reminded him of his own hate for Riot. Perhaps even stronger.

In the second of confusion, he didn't see the zombie's eyes snap open. He didn't see the dagger clenched tight. Only when the zombie surged up did he notice. Too late, far too late.

A kick straight to his chest. Grissom hit the wall with a sharp crack and collapsed to his knees. The urge to kill the cold one (butcher the corpse and tear the soul out, anyway) rose sharply, shoving out all other thoughts.

The undead was on him in a second. When the cleric shot a hand up to tear the dagger from him, he reacted faster than he could have imagined. He slammed Grissom across the face with the hilt. When Grissom made the mistake of putting one hand on the ground for balance, it was pinned under the hard sole of a boot. Every move he made only gave him more pain or trapped him further.

_~...hypocritical dogs of the church, you'll all burn in your HELL every last fucking ONE OF YOU--!!~_

The undead man glared down at him with a hateful expression he hadn't thought possible for a cold one to wear. God, they were not supposed to do this! Grissom tried to shove him off balance and free his pinned hand, desperate to wrench the dagger away. The undead was faster. He easily caught Grissom by the wrist. Grissom's own hateful sneer twitched slightly when he saw the zombie's glare curling into a smirk.

The man twisted his arm back and slammed it back. The walls were mostly carved from the stone of the tunnels, giving it the feel of a mine shaft or cave. But there were beams. Wooden supports stood as pillars against the wall and veins on the ceiling to protect the tunnels from collapse. A lot had broken in the quake, though there were still enough to keep the tunnels standing unless another Great Quake came along.

Grissom's hand was held against one of those pillars. With both hands pinned and an undead leaning over him grinning insanely, he cared about little other than throwing the man off and tearing his throat out. Oh yes, that's what he was going to do. He'd tear a hole in his bloody throat with his bare hands, then slice that damned smirk clean off his ugly--

The dagger speared through his hand.

It was more of a shock than anything else at first. There was a dull thud as the metal embedded into the wood a good few inches. Grissom jerked forward with an involuntary choked gasp. Moving his hand against the dagger made the pain flare for real. His scream caught in his throat. God, he could...he could touch the hilt when he twitched his fingers--!

His other hand was grabbed at the wrist and wrenched from under the zombie's boot, then twisted until it was against the same pillar. Just below his other hand, only the palm pressed to the rough wood rather than the back. Blood was already trailing from the hole in his hand, down the wood and to his uninjured hand. It trickled over his fingers, knuckles, to his wrist, down his arm.

That new horror held his fixated for far too long. It was just as much a shock with a second dagger slammed through his other hand. This one caught a bone on its way through and went in at an odd angle. The scream tore out this time, nearly as loud and pure as the anguished cry from his realization of death. Rather than shock and horror, he was screaming in pain in a way he hadn't known since a near-fatal injury years back. That memory broke through the wall of confusion briefly, but was swept away by agony. His hands, God oh God how his hands hurt and burned and bled. His frantic efforts were devoted to NOT moving them. They kept twitching involuntarily and sending shockwaves of pain through him.

Looking at his hands were as bad as feeling them. One above the other they were pinned clean through, sending trickles of blood down the pillar that was fast turning into a red river. It snaked and flowed through the natural waves and creases in the wood, filling out all the little cracks and fissures. The dagger was driven in nearly to the hilt. The other wasn't a dagger at all, now that he actually looked at it. It looked more like a giant nail or spike, the kind used to hold these massive beams together. It was big, it was in his hand, and it hurt like absolute hell.

_~...get out get out get out you don't deserve to walk. None of you zealot's black souls are fit to die incomplete deaths, a DOG would be more worthy to have flesh than you. You killed us all, you killed the city, you damned every soul, you murdered women and CHILDREN...~_

That babbling voice was like the Walls in a way. The more he tried to ignore it the stronger it became. Not in the least did it take away from the pain in his hands. It merely conjured up images in his mind's eye, things he closed his eyes to try and shut out. He was seeing from someone else's eyes, watching a scene he didn't know. Yet it held him as if it were the most crystal clear of memories.

Soldiers, the Cardinal's and Leá Monde's, seemed to be everywhere. Thick smoke blanketed the air, the sharp crackle of raging fire all around. The city burned. People died. Their screams rose even above the fire. Terrified screams of men and women alike. Heart-wrenching cries of people searching for their loved ones with no thought of escape for themselves, others screaming at people to get the hell out of the way to save themselves. Soldiers shouting prayers and curses at each other as they clashed in the streets with no regard for the people milling all around. Chaos. Hell. It seemed the Apocalypse to the unfortunate people caught between fire and swords and screams of everyone they knew dying horrible deaths.

A fleeing woman had the misfortune of stumbling between two soldiers. A sword tore through her back with a spray of blood that splattered both men. It emerged in front only to pierce the sling with her screaming baby nestled within. The tiny voice suddenly stopped.

Two names repeated over and over in his head. Kaileigh. Ezra. Wife and child. His wife and little son slain before his eyes like so many others, friends and neighbours falling everywhere to the enemy soldier's swords as often as those of the city guards. Kaileigh, sweet Kaileigh, could she ever forgive him for--

The bite of another weapon in Grissom's chest made him snap out of the forced delusion.

He screamed before he could stop himself and tried to pull back, forgetting about his hands completely. The bite of the dagger and nail in his palms reminded him that movement was not a good idea.

This time it was indeed a second dagger, buried in the centre of his chest about halfway. This one burned in an entirely different way than the one nestled in his palm, different than anything he'd ever felt before. He had endured a few stab wounds, an arrow in the chest that nearly killed him, a sword in the chest that DID kill him, and his share of nicks and scratches from almost any weapon imaginable. But the pain from Cambrai's dagger jammed in this stomach was unreal, hitting on a completely different level. Not only did it slice at his flesh, it seemed to cut a gash in his soul, like it were siphoning it from his body. Frozen fire. Like a frostbite with the intensity of a leaping flame and none of the heat.

His body was shaking again, from pain and the effort of staying still. And the effort of forcing those damned images from his head. For a moment he'd been so caught up he believed they were his own. For just a second he'd been convinced that woman was his wife and he watched her die before his eyes without so much as a chance to help her. Ridiculous, he'd never had a wife, never came close to marrying. But for that second he'd believed it completely. It hadn't been all bad. At least it made him stop thinking about his hands, if it hadn't stopped the pain any.

The dagger was yanked out from his chest, a pain accompanied by a small sense of relief. Even when it sent blood trickling down he didn't mind. He welcomed anything that meant that terrible thing was out of his flesh. God how it burned, frostbite fire, it hurt still.... He thought it really would tear his soul out. Grissom did not know it, but he just felt the bite of silver in his dead flesh.

The dagger wasn't still a moment. It rested against his pale cheek, just under his eyes. The tip of a wickedly curved little dagger pricked at his flesh. That made him instinctively freeze up, though rationally it was very unlikely to kill him. Rational thought was all but impossible, but that little thought got through somehow. The tip scraped his eyelid barely, like a clawed finger gently stroking his face. _~...die die die you can die in the dark like I did, rot in pieces down here and scream. She'll come then, just a few more of you dogs and I'll have her back. Diediedie, you'll die for real, how dare you try to pretend you're alive, how DARE YOU!! Cut cut cutcutCUT your fucking eyes from your skull, feed 'em to the rats, no, just one eye, then you'll watch--~_

Whether his trembling was born of pain or otherwise, the distinct visible shudder was most definitely from fear. Those psychotic ramblings were as loud as ever in his mind.

The dagger was tensed against his skin, nearly touching his eye now. The zombie was going to gouge his eyes out.

"Cambrai!"

The dagger pricked him just barely. So close, too close to his eye.... Grissom was so caught up in fear that he barely registered that the voice was real. Not a thought or a voice in his head, it was real.

The undead took his maniacal look from Grissom and turned it to a glare at the darkness. It could pass for frustration or annoyance sooner than anger.

"Cambrai, cease. Leave the zealot be."

So familiar, so damned familiar....

Cambrai sneered at the darkness. "....y-yeeeeeu. Y-ye've n-no....no bizzzzznuss 'ere."

It was obvious he was struggling with the words. Years in Leá Monde did not lend one to conversation unless they were partial to talking to zombies or slimes. There was a distant hint of northlands dialect woven in just barely, but the voice was so gravelly from disuse it was hard to catch. It reminded Grissom of crumbling leaves.

"I have business everywhere in this city and you of all souls know it. Leave him, he'll not bring Kaileigh to you. He's as dead as yourself, you gain absolutely nothing by torturing him."

"D-dead or 'live, he's one of 'em, one o' the Knights 'a t-the Craaaa--..Crawsssse. Crimson fuckin' BLADES. 'E's as much a pious d-demon as any of 'em."

"There are other fools for you to hunt, they overrun the city. Leave him, take your vengeance elsewhere. Do not make me ask you again."

....Sydney? God, was that SYDNEY?

For just a moment Cambrai's dead features flickered. 'Twitched' was more the word, but it gave the same effect either way. "Damn yer soul. Have 'im t-then," he snapped. He pulled the dagger back from Grissom's face then and quickly stood, leaning heavily on one side. The look he gave Grissom was hate that practically vibrated the air. "Tear 'is sssssoul in ha-half, would ya? Wash the disgrace f-from Laaaaa--...Leá M-monde wit' zealot blood, send 'em all ta h-hell, every last--"

"...yes, of course."

There was no mistaking Sydney Losstarot, even in the dim tunnel light. His claws were clasped before his chest, ten razor sharp knives tipping his metal hands. The metal covering on his arms glinted in the low torchlight, making it impossible to tell exactly where the real metal part of his arms began and ended. It was only one of the striking features that made it impossible to mistake who he was.

That was all Grissom was able to focus on before he lapsed into painful delirium again.

The next few moments were a haze of distant murmurs (real and otherwise) he didn't care about and faint wondering of whether or not he could abandon his body if he tried. God help him, even that wandering was better than suffering here in pseudo-crucified agony while a ghoulish zombie and a cultist bargained over his fate. He wasn't aware of the soft moans that escaped him, let alone anything that was being said or done around him. Frankly, he stopped caring altogether. Only a few hours like this and he was so tired of pain he thought that alone would drive him mad if he was not there already. He was half adrift in a sea of damned souls, maybe it would be better if he were cut loose from his body altogether. It scared him to think of giving up his flesh. But a lethal combination of hopelessness and pain made fear seem a distant whisper. The only thing that managed to snap him out of that was a sharp pain in his hand, new agony rather than lingering.

He struggled from his delirium a little. Sydney was kneeling beside him. That showed just how out of it he was, he'd failed to notice a thing the cultist did until now. One claw was clenched around the massive spike pinning his hand to the wood pillar. Pulling it out...?

Sydney frowned as he worked it back a forth very slightly. Little success, it did not budge. It hurt, every little movement. Yet Grissom didn't scream, couldn't seem to manage it. He watched blankly as Sydney pried at the massive spike. The cultist did look like he was taking some care with it. It seemed he would have to resort to other means if he was ever going to budge the thing. Sydney's claws clicked over the wood until it discovered a crack where the nail split the post a little. Both claws slid into the little fissure and began forcing the gap. There was an occasional crack of wood snapping the still air of the dark tunnel. Prying at it nearly split the pillar apart, but it widened the gap and allowed him to get the nail out with a few sharp tugs. One hand free.

Grissom simply let the arm fall to his side. If Sydney thought his lack of reaction was in any way strange, he didn't show it. Without a pause he flung the nail aside and turned his attention back to the task at hand.

The dagger gave easier, a little too easily. A few pulls with both claws wrapped around the hilt sent Sydney stumbling back a step or two when it slipped out.

He watched for a reaction from Grissom and got absolutely none. The cleric remained half kneeling by the bloody pillar, small dark pools of red spreading out where his hands rested limply on the floor. There wasn't too much bleeding, much less than there should have been. At least that was something.

Sydney kept the dagger lightly clenched in one claw. He flicked the sharp talons, sending droplets of blood splattering thickly on the floor. Grissom shifted just a little. It was only to lift his hands and rest them on his knees. He looked as if he'd bury his face in his bloody hands any second.

"Cambrai is gone," Sydney said as he scraped a little red off the dagger with one talon. "Fortunate for you. He hates you zealots. You'll best leave these tunnels as soon as possible."

Grissom was too intent on looking at his hands to pay any attention to Sydney. Already the bleeding was slowed to a tiny trickle. The massive gashes would soon close. It was useless to think it would kill him.

Fears greater than those of death were creeping in. Maybe this existence was worse. He'd never give it up willingly, but perhaps this was truly a fate worse than death. He'd laughed at the idea of anything being worse than dying. Fate, life, Leá Monde, whatever the hell was pulling the strings... They seemed to be conspiring to prove him wrong and damned at every turn.

"Come, can you not speak? Surely you havn't degraded to one of the mindless ones so quickly."

Shut up shut up shut up.... Why would Sydney not simply get on with it? He'd essentially bargained for his 'life' just now. Why he'd bothered (or why he was even HERE instead of off baiting his pet Riskbreaker or taunting Guildenstern) was a mystery. The only explanation that came was he wanted to shred Grissom's body and make sure he'd never be any kind of a threat. A loose end that needed tying. And he had every right to do so. If Grissom ever came across Ashley Riot again, he'd kill him. Simple as that. Sydney would be right to end it here and now.

Sydney shook his head slightly, as if amused at his refusal to say anything. He wasn't fooled. He knelt near him to better see, but Grissom didn't move an inch. "Don't play zombie, cleric. I know you understand me. Speak."

A slight, painful twitching of his left hand was the only reaction Grissom gave him, and even that was involuntary. Just hearing that hateful voice stirred anger in him more than the Walls alone could. Sydney had helped kill him. The sword wound in his chest was half the cultist's, half Riot's. The bitter pain from the sword spearing him was still fresh in his mind. One second he'd been nearing the middle of a summoning chant, the next there was a flash of cold steel followed by an unbearable explosion of agony. At first he'd thought it sliced right through his heart. Sydney left the blade embedded in him just long enough to see that it had barely missed before cruelly yanking it out. Blood had poured forth like the spout of fountain in the squares of Valendia. That image had actually come to his mind. A worn white-stone eagle head spewing water. The wound spewing blood. Pain did strange things to the mind.

Yet he hadn't lost the spell. The brief moment of pain and delusions hadn't been enough to make him break the summon, and he'd continued right from where he'd left off. It surprised the hell out of Sydney, which gave Grissom vicious satisfaction that was almost worth the pain. The only way Sydney showed it was a raised eyebrow and to heap more scorn on him. "Fool, this will kill you. The Dark is hungry. It will eat you alive." He was honestly convinced the dark magick would tear Grissom's soul asunder long before he ever came close to a successful summon. Both of them knew the fates of those who failed summons were, to put it mildly, grisly and agonizing. In a best-case scenario you'd be injured. Maybe maimed or blinded, but you could survive it. Few escaped that easily. The magick itself could kill or drive one to madness. The monster could turn on you and kill. It was rare, but sometimes the monster had actually possessed the body of its summoner and refused to release it until it was killed. All of them horrible deaths or fates worse than death.

Grissom had summoned. He'd succeeded even when wounded and bleeding heavily, hovering on the verge of passing out. He succeeded completely with a spell that by all rights should have killed him.

And it didn't make a bit of difference because Ashley and Sydney killed him instead.

Anger flooded him with those distorted memories, writhing and screaming through him like a living entity all its own. Forget the voices. Grissom needed no prodding to want to kill Sydney.

Anger blinded him, there was no question about it. But it did manage to give him the equivalent of an adrenaline rush. His body seemed to switch randomly from being entirely strange and uncooperative to granting him superhuman abilities and reflexes. It jumped to the latter quite suddenly.

Grissom moved too quickly for Sydney to react. He ignored the pain in his bleeding palm and seized the claw holding the bloody dagger. Sydney jerked back a little, actually startled by the unexpected action. Grissom yanked the dagger from his loose grip and didn't waste a second in slamming Sydney in the face with the hilt. It would have been far more satisfying had it been the blade that met with Sydney's face, but he wasn't in a position to be picky. So long as Sydney was hurt. So long as SOMEONE was hurt instead of him.

The surprise of the attack was short-lived, Sydney recovered almost immediately. The dagger was wrenched from Grissom's hand easily and stabbing at him in the same fluid movement. Sydney would have given him good swipe with the weapon if he hadn't twisted it at the last second. The hilt connected with his chest instead. That would not have been worth noticing if Sydney hadn't made sure to slam the spot where the silver dagger bit into him only moments ago.

Grissom fell back again, half clutching his chest and half fighting that urge to stop the pain in his hands. Grabbing that dagger made it flare up again. His chest hurt but he couldn't follow his instinct and clutch at it or his HANDS would hurt--... God why wouldn't it stop hurting? Undeath dulled pain a little. If this was dulled, the thought of feeling the full effects was horrifying in itself.

While he couldn't ignore it completely, it only fed the fire. The desire to kill Sydney so strong he could taste it. If the cultist made one move towards him he'd pry that dagger from his hands and use it to decapitate him. Let the immortal survive THAT.

Sydney did not attack, but he was certainly angry enough to. Grissom was half insane with confusion, pain, and anger. He couldn't think clearly, much less hold his own in battle with anything but surprise attacks.

Sydney's face twitched with a sneer. It smarted to hold the expression for very long. His free claw gingerly touched the side of his face. The inside of his mouth bled a little, he could taste that on his tongue like bitter red wine. The pricking on his cheek told him he'd have a bruise soon. Bloody zombie, damned zealot--

The sneer faded. So the cleric wasn't quite as apathetic as he seemed. He still said nothing, but the agitated look and general confusion about him made it obvious that he'd snap like a brittle twig with the wrong approach.

Sydney let the uneasy silence last a moment. He rubbed his sore jaw again, half tempted to return the favour before the cleric knew what was happening. But then, he probably didn't know what was happening anyway. Just that he was hurt and desperately wanted someone to pay for that pain. Even now Sydney could sort of sense the wordless voices of Leá Monde drifting about, twining themselves into Grissom's mind until their thoughts were his. It was almost sad how he failed to notice.

"I'll k-kill you...I s-swear to God I will...." Grissom's voice was a little hoarse but still strong.

"Ah, he speaks." Sydney chuckled a little. At least one thing had not changed about the cleric. "Every drop of magick you possess could not kill me."

Grissom found himself leaning heavily against the wall with his hands resting on his knees again. The voiceless orders wove into his mind so easily they might as well have been his own thoughts. Maybe they were. It was impossible to tell where the voices ended and his own petty blood lust began.

"I asked you in the forest if you heard them," Sydney said. "What do they say to you now...?"

Grissom felt no desire to reply. Every word from the cultist was meaningless babble.

"You're truly too stubborn for your own good, Father Grissom. Too stubborn to listen to me in the forest, too stubborn to die..." Sydney paused. The heavy darkness seemed to breathe around him when he went silent. He cocked his head slightly, letting his eyes wander to the ceiling. "You are dead. You want to kill me, Riot too.... Everyone should suffer for your pain. You've been wronged, you've been hurt, so everyone should pay for it. Is that what you tell yourself?"

"Hold yeeeeuu--...your t-tongue or I'll cut it from your head."

A mixed message in that short threat. He was delusional with growing blood lust, or close to it. But surprisingly, he'd corrected himself with he slurred his speech. He still cared enough to do that. He still paid attention enough to NOTICE. He was not lost yet.

"Take heed Grissom, or you shall wish you'd never stumbled over your bloody corpse. You could have died again just now. Cambrai would have butchered your flesh so that it would not be fit for the most desperate of souls. You'll not survive here, Father. You already lose yourself and you're too blind to see."

Grissom was standing now, no longer paying any heed to his wounds. One hand helped him steady himself, the other was limp at his side. Both palms were smeared red, the backs too, but the bleeding was all but stopped. Not quite healing. 'Closing' would be a more accurate description.

"Who can I take you to to make you listen?" Sydney asked, getting quite irritated with the uncooperative zombie. Grissom seemed to be ignoring him in favour of the voices in his head. "Riot? He'd cleave you into dog meat without a thought. Rosencrantz perhaps, you got along with the worm well enough. He'd kill you or laugh at you. Your former comrades maybe? They will kill you. Guildenstern? Bah, he wouldn't waste his time even to kill you. I'm sorely tempted to drag your worthless corpse to one of them, gods know you'll not listen to me."

The words literally did not register to Grissom. He didn't care enough to listen. The only conflict was whether or not to attack Sydney. The rational part of his mind was getting quieter all the time, but it told him he couldn't kill the cultist. He was immortal. No steel or spell could slay him. A dagger in the throat would be little more than a scratch. Why bother?

Yet he wanted to. It didn't matter whether or not Sydney could be killed, he could still be injured. He might leave a scar before Sydney tore him to shreds. Maybe it would be worth it.

A cold claw, almost as cold as his own flesh, clamped on his shoulder. His flesh was pricked with five razor-tipped fingers, subtly telling him it would be better to reconsider any thoughts of pulling away. In his mind was a hundred ways he could maim the cultist, but hearing Sydney chanting short verses until his breath made Grissom tense instead.

"Close your eyes," Sydney whispered in his ear. He whispered a few final phrases Grissom didn't quite catch. Magic swirled in the air and clamped around them. It nipped at Grissom's body like ravenous birds. It wasn't visible, but God could he feel it. It was pulling him apart.

Grissom didn't close his eyes, and he regretted it a fraction of a second later. He watched himself dissolve into bright light.

A memory came, one from earlier this very day. He'd killed a cultist and watched him dissolve into nothing as he died. When he watched his hands dissolve before his eyes he thought Sydney was killing him after all. Those hundred ways to attack the cultist returned, but it was far too late to act on it now.

It took less than a second but it seemed much longer. There was no pain, just tingling and a pull that had the force of someone holding him by the throat and dragging him. It was enough to horrify him all over again for that split second.

Then he lost his sight.

*****

"How could you?! He was--!!"

"How COULD I? What kind 'o question is that? Let the lad go."

"Let him go..." Neesa scowled, rubbing the bruises that lingered on her neck. "Tieger, don't you see? He'd not thinking clearly, if he's thinking at all. He's DANGEROUS, not some poor confused child."

"If he were dangerous we'd be dead," Tieger said simply. "I'd think you to be more inclined to leave 'im be."

Neesa frowned, an expression she had not dropped in a long time.

Their pursuit of their former comrade through the Undercity ended some time ago. Tieger was more inclined to see how useless it was to spend the waning day chasing zombies underground. If Grissom wanted to be found, he'd let himself be found. If he wanted release or mercy, he'd come for it. Until then it was useless to hunt him like a dog. Disrespectful, even. Unless he proved himself dangerous or lost his mind altogether, forcing him to abandon his corpse was the same as murder. It was his soul, he could take his lot however he wished. If he decided he'd rather take death, Tieger would be happy to grant him that mercy.

Neesa did not quite see it that way. Nearly being killed by the cleric made her extremely bitter and far too eager to 'put him out of his misery'. More like putting him out of her misery. She was none too happy about cutting off pursuit. Retreating back through the Undercity and just letting him run away.... It did not sit well with her at all. It was foolish to assume he was any different than the mindless zombies crawling around down here. Dead is dead. Soul or no, he was not the same person now. He wasn't even HUMAN any longer. How could they assume he would make his own choice about his fate when he very likely could not think clearly, if at all?

"It does not matter what he WAS," she said at last. "He's joined the cold ones. You've no idea if he's even sane! An enemy is an enemy no matter what face it wears."

"Let him go."

"Tieger--!"

"Just let him go. If he wants to flee, let him. If he's the danger you believe he is, you'll meet him again. Hold your weapon until then."

Though Neesa technically out-ranked him, she was inclined to listen. It was strange, she half wanted to kill Grissom out of anger, half out of mercy. She wondered if he had consciously attacked her or if his soul was dead or shut out. Even with his short temper she could not imagine him attacking anyone undeserving. Maybe Leá Monde's evil had twisted his mind.

Tieger and Neesa had very different ideas on what should be done with their former comrade. Tieger had won out for now, but neither could truly know if they were right. Did mercy even apply when one was already dead? Perhaps Neesa was right to say he was no different than any of Leá Monde's monsters now. Tieger was almost inclined to believe it himself, if it had not been for the fact that Grissom ran away. He had not mindlessly pressed on in a kamikaze attempt to kill them all. He was hurt so he ran. He wanted to live. But then, did the dead even have a right to? Such conflicting ideas. If it were not for the fact that they had other duties in Leá Monde, Neesa probably would have won out no matter what Tieger said.

They did share one belief. If Grissom made himself a threat again, he'd have to be dealt with.

Compassion only went so far.

*****

The tingling returned. That was the only way he could know the spell was wrapping up. It made him mentally queasy. Perception was turned on its head so that clear thought was impossible, and that was all that kept him from panicking entirely.

After a faint sense of movement in what could have been an eternity of nothingness (but was probably little more than a few seconds), the tingling was there and suddenly his body was there again. No warning, no build up, nothing fancy at all. One second it was all strange and dreamy, the next it wasn't. His mind hovered between the two a moment. For one sweet second he forgot everything that had happened in the last few hours. All he knew was he was whole again, real again, he could move by his own will.

Reality crashed down as swift and brutal as ever. Immediately the feelings of undeath returned in full. It as accompanied by a vaguely familiar pricking sensation, like tiny worms crawling through his skin.

Sight returned only to be destroyed again. Bright light stung his eyes, like someone was shining a lamp right in his face. A few blind steps forward brought the sensation to an end, and everything was cold again. Calm again. The crawling sensation on his skin remained a moment, then vanished. He banished the thought of worms with it. If there was one thing he didn't want to think about yet it was insects and the rotting feast his body was going to provide some day.

A gentle breeze touched his flesh. Wind. Above ground. He was above ground again...?

No, not quite. It was a room deep in the catacombs, but the ceiling was nonexistent, long since crumbled in the quakes. It opened to a mostly cloudy, white-streaked sky. The near-total darkness of the tunnels was replaced by a mix of torchlight and natural sunlight. Searing sunlight. It was not so strong compared to the direct sunlight in the city streets when the sky was clear, but sunlight is sunlight to the undead.

In the moments he spent in the shadows with his eyes covered he realized what had happened just now. Teleportation. A rare spell indeed. He'd never actually done it, but now he did not care to do it again. Perhaps if he learned it himself, but he certainly didn't want to be dragged along by another. The person casting the spell (in this case, Sydney) determined where it went. He'd never heard of anyone being taken along under the influence of the same spell, but that was apparently it. No control, no feeling, no body. An awful lot of nothing.

Easing his eyes open stung. Even in the shade the glare of sunlight and bright sky above was agitating his eyes. There was a nagging feeling that he should go further underground. Not quite voices in his head, but a persistent suggestion nonetheless. So this was why the cold ones didn't venture out during the day. The sun affected them, drove them into the darkest tunnels. Nightfall would be a different matter. When the moon ruled the sky, shining like the will o' wisp lamps of the Undercity, the dead could truly walk free in Leá Monde. Hundreds of undead stalking the stone streets, in buildings, alleyways... The city would truly belong to the dead then.

Grissom suppressed his wonderings about the city's transformation at night. It would come all too soon. At least he COULD wonder. No longer was his mind completely clouded with waring agony and blood lust and confusion. It was all there, but weaker. For the first time in quite a while he was able to think clearly. The magick must have affected him somehow, or maybe Sydney had done something he'd failed to notice. Whatever the cause, he was a little steadier balancing that thin line and shifting back to sanity's side. Whether that was a blessing or a curse was up to him to decide.

Sydney was unphased by the teleportation spell. In fact, he looked rather bored standing there in the middle of a the empty stone chamber. He'd said nothing immediately to give Grissom time to recover from the spell's effects. "Now...." Sydney stayed in the open area of weak sunlight and stared at the cleric expectantly. His metal arms were crossed casually, as if he were quite relaxed in waiting for the cleric to recover and come to face him.

There might as well have been a wall between them. Grissom had no intention of moving from the shadows. He couldn't bring himself to do anything that was going to compound his pain, even for a matter of pride. So Sydney would stay in the light, essentially looking down on him, and he'd stay condemned to the dark. Damnation found new ways to show itself all the time.

Sydney frowned and reached out with one claw, uselessly beckoning him forward. "Silent again, Father? I'd have thought you to have a few venomous words for me at the least."

He had plenty, but he kept them to himself. Silence seemed to irritate the cultist far more than any insults would. There was enough occupying his thoughts as it was. He hadn't realized how far he'd slipped between his death and the episode in the tunnels. Comparing his state of mind when he tried to kill Neesa and his near-insane delirium in those tunnels, it was easy to see they were essentially the same thing. Confusion, lust for blood, complete disregard for any shred of sanity he still possessed. He'd sunk to it not once but TWICE without realizing or caring. God...he didn't CARE. How long could he keep pulling himself back from that before he gave in altogether? How long before he WELCOMED it? Maybe it was better to take his fate and let himself quietly die inside. At least he'd keep his flesh. At least he wouldn't worry about pain or that burden of sanity he stubbornly clung to.

"You'd best say something," Sydney warned. "Or I'll send you back to your comrades for them to complete your death. Maybe I'll crucify you on that pillar and leave you for Cambrai to find."

Threats had amazingly little effect on Grissom. He'd rarely listened to them in life and he wasn't going to start now. From his experience, most threats were merely bluffs and scare tactics by people who could never bring themselves to do half of what they said. Lunatics and truly ruthless men might, but most people... Usually no. Unfortunately, Sydney was one of the few whose threats he couldn't decipher. His stubbornness, exactly the thing that had saved him and killed him in turn in the Snowfly Forest, wouldn't let him believe the cultist would actually bind him and leave him for Neesa and Tieger like a bear tied to stakes for ravaging dogs to tear apart.

"B-beee gaaa--" Slurred again. He stopped himself and silently raged at how unfair it was that he couldn't so much as talk without extra effort. This time he forced the words out more clearly, concentrating on one syllable at a time and carefully forming each word. "Begone... or... you... burn." God, it was so hard to talk. His body did not want to cooperate at all, least of all his mouth. And making his own threats now.... His last threat to Sydney had been that he'd summon. Sydney hadn't believed him. Maybe he would not take him so lightly this time.

"Death hasn't taught you any humility, I see. Perhaps the voices can." A slight smile appeared when Grissom looked up sharply. "I like to listen sometimes, they have such an interesting song. What do they say to you, Grissom?"

"...I hear nothing."

Sydney was rightfully unconvinced. "I expected as much. Were you praying back there in the Undercity? Surely you know your dead god is not going to answer you. You're wasting your efforts. You may as well talk to the city, or myself. At least we'll talk back."

The Undercity? Had Sydney been spying on him even then? "I'll have nothing to do with you..." Grissom said. "You OR this city."

"No choice. The city...or more accurately, the Dark...owns you."

"And you?"

"Believe it or not, you interest me. None of us are going anywhere yet, you may as well learn to accept it."

'Learn to accept it.' Not a chance. That went against Grissom's very nature. When he was by nature stubborn and strong in his beliefs, accepting anything in so short a time was simply not going to happen. Perhaps that was why the voices could affect him so. Trying to twist his mind so fast had broken him instead. Temporary. He HAD managed to regain himself somewhat. But it was a very strong warning. They would not be beaten by no more than a stubborn will.

It occurred to him that he was personifying the power of the Dark and Leá Monde far too much. It wasn't a 'he' or 'she' or a 'them' or even an 'it'. It just was. There was no way for him to deal with the crushing presence or understand it unless he identified it somehow. Walls. Them. The Voices. Any of them sufficed, and all were equally inaccurate. Undeath did not lend him any higher understanding or any way to comprehend that he hadn't possessed while he lived. It was almost disappointing. The dead were always said to know more than the living. They were supposed to have all the secrets of the bloody universe at their disposal. Whatever old philosopher coined that was ignorant or absolutely full of shit. Or maybe Grissom just hadn't died the right way. He supposed it was Leá Monde's cruel joke that he be as ignorant in death as he was in life.

"What do you WANT, cultist?" he asked at last. Sydney wasn't going to be ignored forever. Lesser evil, in Grissom's mind. This would take his attention away from the distant voice of Leá Monde. He may have regained his sanity a little, but the voices were far from gone. They whispered through his head to the point where it was getting difficult to ignore them.

"I told you, you interest me," Sydney said. He seemed pleased that Grissom had given up ignoring him. "You know you are dead. Yet you cling to this life, if you can call it such. Why do you not die? Your comrades would be willing to give it to you."

"I'm not dead," he replied automatically.

Sydney laughed quietly. "Is that so, now?"

"...my soul is not. That's life enough." He'd repeated those exact words to himself a hundred times by now. It sounded pathetically unconvincing when spoken out loud.

"It is not life, it is pain." Sydney was quiet a moment, pondering something Grissom didn't care enough to wonder about. "In the forest you were in agony, and you foolishly continued that summon. It killed you. Will you hold onto pain now? Be not the fool, Grissom. Die."

Grissom's dark glare prodded no reaction from Sydney. Godless cultist, no different than everyone else. They all wanted to kill him...butcher him, slice him, chop him, disembowel him, blind him–

He caught himself before sinking too deep into that. There was a paranoia that seemed to have rooted itself in him ever since death and had him imagining the worst fates possible for himself in any given situation. He'd already seen what happened when he let it take hold. Still, dealing with Sydney, he had every right to be paranoid. "If you do this to convince me to die, don't waste your time."

"You have no idea. I've some time, the afternoon is early yet.

"Spend it elsewhere."

Sydney frowned. "Nothing but ire... You are a hypocrite. A cleric of the Cardinal who hates the Dark, yet uses it freely. A cleric damned to be a demon of the Dark for the rest of your existence–"

That managed to hit a very VERY raw nerve.

"I am no DEMON," he hissed. Should have seen this coming... Why had he bothered humouring Sydney? There was no way he could speak more than a few words to the cultist without one of them hitting a nerve somewhere.

"Denial," he said simply. "You're so full of denial it's sickening. You are a demon by every definition of the word. Hypocrite, outcast, damned, demon, monster, and you deny every one of them. You even deny you are DEAD."

"My soul–!!"

"–is little better than a parasite, clinging to a corpse and refusing to let go until every ounce of use can be sucked from it."

"Words. Meaningless WORDS."

"Do not shrug them off. I know far more than thee about the workings of Leá Monde. And–"

"Silence, worthle–"

"--AND I know more about you than you'd guess. Do you want me to tell you about yourself, cleric? Will that move your stubbornness aside and allow you to listen? I don't need to invade your filthy mind to know you are stubborn, I've seen that. You killed yourself with it."

Confusion and pain made his temper more fragile than ever, but at least he had some amount of self-control to go along with it. "I seem...to remember..." he forced out through clenched teeth. "You and your pet Riskbreaker...taking turns carving me."

"If you had not summoned–"

Sydney stopped himself there, quite flustered and actually starting to lose patience. His grey eyes were darker than before, giving him an air of controlled power that would have intimidated most people. There was the faint sound of metallic clicks as he flexed his claws at his sides. "I was trying to speak civilly with you, you hypocritical walking worm bed. Maybe you want to be treated as what you are. Demon, undead, hypocritical ZEALOT-- ...gah, your soul is black enough for any of them."

There. Grissom once again managed to ease Sydney towards his limit of anger. Last time the man gave him two sizeable gashes for it. It made him slightly more on edge even through there was really no reason to be. What could the cultist do to him now? Kill him again? Ha, that was a laugh... Even the great Sydney couldn't slay him so easily. "Begone," he said again. "I'll not speak to you or any of your wretched followers."

" 'Tis you who's the wretched one."

Grissom pretended to ignore him. He wasn't particularly good at it.

"I'd take advantage of this meeting, dear Grissom," Sydney hissed. "You shall be alone all too soon. You are naught but a wand'ring spirit. No home, no family, no LIFE, body or soul. You have no purpose. No excuse for living other than you can. You. Have. NOTHING. You should be bloody thankful I'd speak to you at all, else you'd still be cowering in the Undercity like a frightened rabbit waiting for your merciful friends to hack you apart. Or better yet you'd be screaming as Cambrai gutted you. Humour me for a few moments, cleric. When I finish, you are free to wander this wretched city as much as you like.

"You are confused," he continued without a pause. "I saw that much. This is all new to you, and you haven't the knowledge of the Dark or this city it understand it. Humans are frightened by that which they do not understand, fear is making you blind. Can you not see how irrationally you are acting? Even when you encountered me in that forest you gave me an earful before ever raising a weapon against me. Heh, I couldn't wait for you to STOP talking then." Sydney gave him a small smile that he took as mocking, but there was nothing particularly cruel about it. "I've seen wounded dogs acting exactly as you do now. You do nothing but cower in pain and self-pity and bite anything that comes near you, friend or foe. Look at yourself Father, surely you can see...them...feasting on your hate and confusion. Your mind is not so far gone that you cannot sense it."

Grissom said nothing to argue it.

"You know," Sydney continued casually, "I enjoy learning about others. I could look at your soul and know all your secrets and shames and fears."

That made Grissom twitch a little.

He'd waited for a reaction. "But," he continued. "I'd much rather hear about you in your own words. Tell me about yourself, Grissom." The mistrust Grissom felt must have shown, for Sydney added, "I am not tricking you. There is nothing I can do to you that someone else cannot. If I wanted you 'dead' I'd leave your comrades to the task. Perhaps I may help you understand your death. Wouldn't you rather that than to be wand'ring in confusion? A fair deal, cleric."

"...why should I?"

"Do you really have anything better to do?"

Doubt was chewing at Grissom's mind now, enough to let him consider the proposal. He'd never known Sydney to bargain for anything. But he had absolutely nothing to lose from the deal. For all appearances Sydney was merely trying to satisfy his curiosity. As for Grissom himself.... What did it matter if anyone knew anything about him now? As must as it stung to admit it, Sydney did know far more about the Dark and Leá Monde than he did. Perhaps he wouldn't have to suffer the way he'd been for the last few hours. Besides, he knew Sydney was not going to leave him be until he was satisfied. Egotistical cultist.

But...he was right. God damn him, he was RIGHT. Grissom hadn't put a thought to how paranoid and irrational he was being. Had he really slipped so far in so short a time? At this rate he'd be a slave of Leá Monde before the day was out. He suddenly felt very tired and a little defeated.

"...I want to leave," he said simply.

Sydney took that as a 'no' to his question. " 'Live', you mean."

"Both."

"Don't delude yourself Brother. Dead is dead. You cannot breathe life back into a corpse, only...animate it. As for leaving... The Paling seals the Dark and its creatures in. That includes the cold ones."

"I'll not stay here."

"Fool. You think the Paling will make an exception for you? Mayhaps you'll ASK it, and it will take pity on your poor pious soul and give you pass? How strong your delusions are."

"Hope," Grissom growled. "It is HOPE."

"Misplaced hope," Sydney raised one claw and thoughtfully tapped his chin. "Hypothetically, if you did manage to leave the city without losing your body or your sanity...what would you do? The undead have no place on the countryside. You'd be torn apart by superstitious peasants the second you showed yourself, and living in exile would be no better than staying here."

"Do not tell me what would be BETTER," Grissom snarled, louder than intended. "Ridding myself of those damned voices would be BETTER. Leaving this wretched city would be BETTER."

Sydney waved his claw to motioned for his silence. "Shh, calm yourself. I know what you hear."

Grissom almost asked 'how can you?' but knew that would only prod the steadily rising anger. The voices fed on that as well. Reigning his short temper had never been his strongest point, but he tried rather than let himself rage at Sydney. Calm. Be calm. They took advantage when his emotions flared uncontrollably. So was he never to let himself get angry again? Or feel anything for that matter? He might as well be a mindless zombie then. No, he'd have to find a way to meet the voices on their own terms. Eventually.

"Duane..." Sydney said suddenly, making Grissom snap to attention. "Your brother. Tell me about him. Why were you so insistent on avenging his death? You were as blinded with rage as you were a moment ago."

Grissom felt an unexpected pang of anger and sadness at the mention of his dead brother. It seemed like a lifetime ago he'd learned of his brother's death and set out to avenge it. 'You killed my brother, I'll kill you.' Simple rage. Rage had completely blinded him to the danger of fighting Sydney and Riot, and to the consequences of summoning that creature. And what had it gotten him? Nothing but dead. Why did Duane have to die...? His brother backed down from battles no better than Grissom himself did, both of them knew it. Why couldn't he have left Riot to the Knights? If he hadn't fought Riot, if he hadn't died, if, if--

Bitter thoughts were crowding in Grissom's mind. Maybe that anger was directed at Duane and that sadness reserved for himself. Was he angry at his brother for having to die and in turn sending him to his death? Maybe. Maybe he'd let himself stay that way. But anger was a far cry from hate. As bitter as death had made him, he didn't hate his brother. Through all the fighting and rivalry and friction between them in life, Grissom could not hate him. He wouldn't.

"You loved your brother," Sydney said softly when Grissom didn't answer immediately.

"He's my brother. It was my duty to avenge his murder."

"Your duty to him or to yourself? You hunted for revenge in the wrong place. I didn't kill him."

"The Riskbreaker did. Ashley."

"In self-defence."

"Justified murder," Grissom sneered, "But murder still."

"Then you believe yourself murdered as well. I can tell you truthfully, the Dark killed you as much as Riot did. You were half dead with the Dark before you ever managed that summon."

"Spare me your lecture."

Sydney raised his eyes to the cloudy sky overhead, trying to hide his frustration with the undead cleric. The sun peaked out shyly through wisps of clouds every once in a while. It didn't much affect the light level in the room, but an open sky was an open sky and sunlight was sunlight. Grissom hadn't left the shadowy corner since retreating there. He suddenly ached to feel the soft touch of sunlight again. Not since the Snowfly Forest had he been able to tolerate direct sunlight. Some time between the forest and the town centre he'd developed an intolerance to it. At the back of his mind there was an urge to retreat further underground and away from the open sky. Maybe he should listen to it. He was only deluding himself by being so near the sunlight as if he were able to enjoy it.

"Why do you continue to walk?" Sydney asked suddenly.

Grissom scarcely paid attention, but he really had no answer. None for himself and certainly none for Sydney. "Because I can... Because my soul lives. What does it matter that the body does not?"

"You only continue to 'live' because you will not let go of life." Sydney came closer until he was standing in the shade as well, away from the weak intruding light. Grissom remained half-crouching and wasn't going to move for the cultist. It was somewhat similar to their encounter only a short time ago in the tunnels. Though this time he wasn't quite as filled with mindless blood lust and liked to think he was considerably less...well, insane.

Sydney leaned slightly to place a claw on Grissom's shoulder. The cleric wasn't sure whether the gesture was to get his attention or make Sydney seen halfway friendly towards him. Either way he didn't flinch at the touch or shove his claw away. Human contact of any kind was something he was going to miss terribly very soon.

"Did you ever think you might be able to die if you wanted to? If you released that useless flesh you might be able to complete your death. Think of it Grissom, you needn't stay here. You killed yourself with stubbornness, you needn't torture yourself further. All that awaits you here is endless wand'ring and the pointless existence of damned souls. Die, cleric. Go to that god you adore if 'tis something for you to look forward to. Die and leave this cursed place."

Sydney quickly straightened. With a dismissive gesture, he added, "Or you might sink into the whirlwind of souls and scream for eternity. I'd think it worth the risk, myself."

Grissom didn't care for Sydney's words enough to get angry this time. He rose from his crouched position at last. Without a word he took a step over the thin line of shadows. The second he passed the haven of darkness he felt it. His skin prickled faintly, the same crawling sensation he'd felt the first time he emerged into sunlight from the Undercity. He kept his eyes averted from the stinging glare of the sun, but managed to glare at Sydney.

Sydney took is as confirmation that either the cleric was going mad, being infuriatingly difficult, or savouring his pain. "Blind," Sydney muttered. "You're naught but a misguided little boy, too blind to see your fate and too stubborn to accept any help offered. I think you enjoy your pain, mayhaps I should leave you to it. It will never stop, not until you die a complete death. No life is worth that, least of all this semblance of life you endure."

"Any fate is better than death."

Saying it out loud strengthened his wavering confidence. Sydney was like the voices in a way, everything he said made sense on a level Grissom didn't want to accept. It was all true, every last word of it. The voices were right that his comrades wanted to kill him, that he was afraid of his fate here, and probably about a lot of other things. Sydney was right that he too stubborn to accept help. And probably right that he should just give the hell up and die. So many conflicting things, one fate worse than the next, one voice louder than another.... Was everything in this bloody place clawing for a piece of his soul?

"Is that what you believe? Is that honestly what you tell yourself? Such lack of faith from a lamb of the Cardinal."

Sydney suddenly turned his back on the cleric. He headed for a doorway leading deeper into the tunnels of the interlocking underground structures.

Grissom went after him a few steps, glad for an excuse to leave the irritating sunlight. Where was he going? He'd just wasted his time preaching to Grissom and now he'd just...leave?

Sydney didn't turn, but motioned with his claw. "I'm going for a walk. Care to join me?"

Mistrust and paranoia presented him with a hundred things Sydney could intend to do with him. Yet he followed. He managed to surprise himself by doing so, but as far as he was concerned it was only to satisfy his own curiosity about Sydney's intentions. It was not as if he had anywhere to be. Besides, he had the feeling that if he didn't come, Sydney would just teleport him again. His pride had suffered as much as the rest of him today, and he preferred to maintain whatever scraps he had left.

That curiosity was not satisfied immediately. For a long time he followed Sydney in silence. The cultist said nothing as he passed from room to room. He seemed relaxed down here, and as if he were wandering with no real direction in mind. Grissom strongly suspected Sydney had a destination and knew exactly where he was going. Yet he said nothing, and Grissom did not ask.

The rooms here were different from the blue-tinted Undercity or the tunnels he found himself in a short time ago. Those tunnels were more like the remains of a mine shaft than anything else. The Undercity was essentially just city streets built below ground. These rooms had changed purpose countless times during Leá Monde's existence. It was a patchwork web of intertwining storage rooms, walkways, catacombs, training grounds for soldier and priests, mines, and a dozen other things. There was only so much space to build above ground, so the city's architects had been fond of extending down into the earth. That set it up for disaster when the Great Quake struck.

Tight, closed rooms lit only by torches of varying brightness and cluttered with quake debris. Dancing torchlight shadows were thrown on the walls, sometimes indistinguishable from evil creatures creeping up. Far-off cries rose in the deathly quiet, cries of things not quite dead and not quite alive. Dark enveloped many of the rooms, the weak torch light providing a sickly little glow that quivered and fluctuated with even the smallest breath of air. Other rooms were bright as a cloudless day. Still, it was all part of the same maze. Nothing but a labyrinth of tight, confining tunnels that led nowhere but in circles and offered nothing but torment.

Grissom passed through here on their entrance to Leá Monde hours ago and had not being reassured by anything he saw. He was with Duane at the time, their two groups of Knights combined until they reached the surface. The Knights followed their commanders in small pockets, quietly murmuring among themselves and looking altogether too unnerved by everything that moved. The dead that walked, the cold ones, had already shown themselves and cost them three Knights in one attack. They'd been told to expect unnatural creatures here, but no one had mentioned the damned UNDEAD.

Their presence had made Grissom wonder why the Cardinal didn't smash the city to dust years ago. They'd known since the quake that Leá Monde had become a wellspring for the Dark. The stones of the city should have been cleansed with the blood of the undead and demons years ago. Now, he supposed, they were paying the price for letting evil fester do long without reigning it or destroying it. The undead! They should all be driven from their stolen bodies and the demons sent back to Hell.

It caused a stir among the Knights. They whispered old tales of the dead that walked and some insisted that the touch of an undead passed the curse on to its living victim. Duane eventually grew tired of listening to it. With a few sharp words he ordered them to leave their superstitions back at the wine cellar entrance. It was rather hypocritical on Duane's part, but Grissom didn't mention it.

It was not merely the undead that stalked the tunnels and unsettled the Knights. Grissom eyed the bats fluttering restless in one corner of the ceiling, wondering if they'd attack like the last batch did. The creatures nested in the cracks and crevices of the earthquake-shattered ceiling. They made lazy attempts to attack if anyone came near enough, but they really weren't that interested when they stayed away. He'd seen more Dark-twisted creatures here in an hour than he would have in a lifetime. The animals were vicious carnivores now, with a particular fondness for human flesh. Other creatures had settled in after the quake, none of them friendly. Goblins, imps, phantoms, dragons.... It was like an excerpt from a faerie tale battle.

"I do not see why we need to ferret out these cult dogs," Grissom said to Duane. "Why not simply seal that wine cellar entrance? If half the legends about this place are true they'd be dead in days with no way to escape."

"You think we've the supplies for a siege?" Duane was using the tone of voice he reserved for when he thought Grissom was being rash or foolish.

"The supplies to guard one cellar entrance," he replied stubbornly.

"And if that's not the only entrance? There could be a dozen of those rat holes scattered around the perimeter."

Grissom remained unconvinced, but he didn't feel like arguing with his brother. Perhaps he was unconsciously searching for an excuse not be here.

The combined squad of Knights following a few feet behind them seemed not to notice. Most of them were either talking quietly among themselves or seemed a little spooked at being in such a confined space. They grew more nervous each time a small earthquake shook the tunnel around them. Grissom knew that all too well. Being in such a tight place made him uncomfortable to begin with, moreso with the risk of an earthquake bringing the city down on their heads. Claustrophobia was not strong enough to keep him from coming here. But it would be a relief to reach the surface, even if it was in the middle of Leá Monde.

There was something about this city that made Grissom...sort of anxious and edgy. Something beyond the monsters and abandonment. He could practically feel the evil of this place. Though he didn't know it, it was not completely his imagination. He really could feel something. The presence of the Dark was strong enough to make itself known in one way or another, regardless of how faintly he felt it or how ignorant he was of it. If Duane felt the same he'd long since brushed it off as unimportant. He never did listen to superstitions, which was strange since he was more devoutly religious than Grissom himself. All superstition, just a different context.

Grissom mentally shrugged at the thought. Leave that to the philosophers. He was a soldier and a cleric, here to do a job and not dawdle around wondering about the faults of humanity or the workings of the universe. Superstition bred only fear, and fear death.

That didn't stop Grissom from fingering the thin silver chain of the amulet around his throat, hidden just under his collar. Silver repels evil. All the knights in stories had silver swords to slay the evil monsters. Some women hung silver trinkets in the babe's cribs out of fear they'd be stolen by demons or faeries in the night. Silver arrows to kill werewolves, silver crosses for vampires, and on and on and on. Stories and superstition and fear. He knew that. Whether it did anything or not, it did feel better to have the comforting weight of the amulet hanging from his neck.

Strange, Grissom had been living with the hope of seeing these tunnels again only to LEAVE this evil place.

Now, passing through here with Sydney several hours and a lifetime after that first trip through with Duane, it all seemed so different. His amulet was gone, stolen. Duane was dead. Grissom was worse than dead. He'd betray any order from the Cardinal himself just to get out of Leá Monde.

Grissom drew out of his memories and realized how close to the wine cellar he was. He remembered being a little intimidated by how tight some of the passages and tunnels were. Though a little more used to it now, tight places were to be avoided if he could help it. Just an irrational thing, nothing he couldn't handle or suppress. It gave him that much more reason to hate it here, hate the Dark, hate incomplete death....

There was a jumble of legends surrounded incomplete death that he still had not sorted out. Was there any different fate for those filled with the Dark than those that were not? Most of the souls here lingered only because the Dark's hold was so strong in this city. If the Dark were removed, maybe...maybe they would be able to die, or at least escape the city. Right now he wasn't sure which he'd hope for. He had...well, a death-grip on life. Even a living soul was better than dying completely.

...maybe. Being screamed at by voices in his head and hunted down by his comrades like a lame animal to be put out of its misery... Maybe there were worse fates than death.

So many maybes. He'd never been so unsure in his life. God, this was so unfair.... So damned unfair he could scream. Why should he be damned to this existence? He wasn't evil. He'd died trying to avenge his brother's death from a murderer and a godless cultist, there couldn't be any evil in that. And dabbling in the Dark couldn't be so damning, could it? It was now that he desperately wished he knew more about the Dark besides how to dip into its endless flow and channel a little into magick. He'd been loyal to his religion, he loved his family... And none of it had lifted a finger to save him from damnation.

Those bitter thoughts were forgotten when he again thought of how near the wine cellar he was. It would take less than an hour to get back to the wine cellar exit from here. To hell with Sydney and his warnings, some repellant magick wasn't going to keep him in. Maybe the Paling could be bent or shifted slightly, just enough for him to slip through. Perhaps it could not keep him in at all. It could be nothing but a legend for all he knew. If it existed at all, there had to be a way past it. He refused to believe he was imprisoned in this city. If he had to endure eternity within these wall he might as well be wandering bodiless.

"What are you thinking?" Sydney said suddenly. The cultist didn't look back, didn't even slow his pace. He seemed at ease wherever he was in this city, as if he owned every stone of the place and controlled every creature. Maybe he did.

"Are you my confessor now?" Grissom half-muttered. Thoughts of how to go about shifting the Paling preoccupied him. He wished Sydney would grow tired of taunting him and be gone. Yet part of him was glad for the interruption. He lost concentration when his mind wandered too much.

"I can be if you wish it."

He could almost laugh at that. Sydney Losstarot, the person he'd despised as a heretic in life, would be his confessor and saviour? Heh, yes, a 'saviour' indeed. He was no different than Tieger and Neesa. Doing him a favour by giving him death or, in Sydney's case, convincing him to give it to himself. At least Sydney's attempts were laced in words rather than a plain flash of steel.

"Can you see how you've changed?" Sydney asked, perhaps trying out that role of confessor. "More than physically. Dead has altered you so."

"I am not changed." Automatic reply. Yet even now he was doubtful about how much truth there was to it outside his own delusions.

"Denial. The man I saw in the forest was a fool of the church, too pious and stubborn for his own good with naught but vengeance on his mind. Now you are simply a fool. A dead fool, abandoning his faith for other shepherds to lead him. You have only this...this fixation with life and keeping your flesh and soul. No mere desire, you are obsessed with life. Your duty to your commanders and your god have already failed you, but this obsession gives you reason to walk."

No reply. Grissom simply didn't feel like giving one.

Sydney sighed to himself and casually brushed away a few strands of blonde hair that dangled in his face. "Stop the silent treatment, it's rather childish. I can't help you unless you--"

"Do not help me."

"You wouldn't be following me if you didn't care what I had to say. Or are you simply afraid to be alone?" He ended with bitter sarcasm.

"...always."

Not for the first time, Grissom managed to surprise him. That actually made Sydney stop in his tracks. "I know you are. I just...did not expect you to admit it." He paused a second longer, then resumed walking.

"Do not pry into my mind," Grissom growled. There were more than enough rumours of Sydney's power to see entirely too far into other's minds. The idea of the cultist leafing through his thoughts and memories as easily as most would skim through a book.... It made him uneasy at best.

Sydney just shrugged. "You are dead. I cannot dig around in your mind as easily as one of the living. It does not take clairvoyance to know your feelings."

Grissom let it die at that.

His suspicions about where Sydney was leading him turned out to be truth. Wine crates were piled behind reinforced metal bars on either side of the room. Vintage Leá Monde wine. So they were in the wine cellar. No rooms were recognizable yet, but sooner or later he'd find something he remembered from his first trip through. Then it would be no trouble to get back to the cellar entrance and the hell out of this damned city. It ceased to matter that he was dead. He had his soul. He had his body. That was enough. It had to be. He'd endure it as long as he could do so out of Leá Monde.

"I know what you think," Sydney sighed. "Perish the thought, cleric. If you have any idea how much magick went into making the Paling you'd know that you can't pass and no parlour trick magick you know could move it. I'm not sure _I _could move it, what chance do you think you--"

Small, foolish hope flickered to life. "But you might..." he said, half to himself. "If you tried, you might be able to dispel it."

"Not without the aid of the Gran Grimoire itself. And I would not be so foolish as to destroy the very thing that keeps the demons from pouring out into the countryside and villages."

"Shift it, then!"

"No."

Anger rose so sharply he had no desire to curb it. "You'll do it, cultist!" Grissom snarled. "You'll do it or God help me I'll--"

"Kill me?" Sydney laughed. He cocked his head to one side, letting his blonde hair dangle over one shoulder as he listened to something just loud enough to detect. "Who's telling you that, Grissom? The voices in your heart or the voices in your head?" He was close enough to Grissom to reach out and tap one claw to the side of the cleric's head, just below the unhealed gash from the forest battle.

With a wordless growl Grissom lunged at the cultist, fully intent on strangling the life from him. Sydney didn't think it enough to refuse him aid, he'd taunt him too. Godless heretic, cultist scum, manipulating DOG--

Just as Grissom would have tackled the man to the ground, just when he was about to make the cultist sorry he'd ever so much as approached him...Sydney was suddenly gone.

Grissom stumbled forward into nothing but empty air and crashed to the ground, striking his head against a metal gate. He howled in pain and clutched his head, swaying back and forth. It never ceased to amaze him that the undead still felt pain so acutely. One would never know it from slaying corpses in the Undercity. They never made a noise of complaint when their limbs were lopped off. Pain was sort of dulled, much moreso when he was lost in blood lust and cared about little or nothing. Dulled but still there. The curse of holding onto a soul that understood pain.

Sydney's voice came from behind. "Why do they want you to kill me?"

He channelled his frustration and pain into yelling at the cultist. "I need no Walls to tell me to kill YOU!!"

" 'Walls'..." Sydney muttered to himself. "Hm. Are you claustrophobic? Never mind, 'tisn't important." Grissom shook off the pain that spun around his head relentlessly and slowly climbed to his feet again, his head and pride smarting. "Now do you see why I shall not attempt to shift the Paling for you? I'll not let you loose, you cannot even control yourself. You're naught but a pawn, my poor misguided boy. A pawn of Guildenstern and the Cardinal in life, and thou art a pawn of Leá Monde and the Dark in death."

"I'm no PAWN--!!"

"For gods' sake calm down! I'm taking you exactly where you want to go you ungrateful zealot, the least you can do is be civil."

"What...?"

Sydney was already walking off to the next room. Grissom quickly followed him. "What nonsense do you speak?"

"The cellar entrance. That is where you wanted to go. I'll not stop you, but at least know the Paling will throw you back before you ever set foot outside this city."

Somehow it was harder to concentrate on Sydney's words. It wasn't like Grissom to be so apathetic, but once again he felt no urge to reply. It was getting more difficult to care. He wasn't sure why he should.

They stopped when they came to a gate. Sydney muttered some words under his breath to unlock the magickly sealed gate. Even without the seal, the opening mechanism was hidden. It would take eight men to even budge it without that. Grissom vaguely remembered it as being close to the passage from the surface. A few minutes to freedom. To hell with Leá Monde, to hell with his orders and his duties, to hell with DEATH, he just wanted to be as far from the city as possible. He'd run far and fast and if God favoured him in the slightest he'd never see this place again. It didn't matter what he did. Didn't matter that he was dead. It meant less than nothing to him now. So long as he left, nothing mattered.

He was so wrapped up he scarcely paid attention to Sydney working his magick. The gate squealed in protest, but it rose open with a relatively simple series of spells. When it was open he didn't hesitate a second to pass through and continue on. He failed to notice Sydney didn't follow.

The air was different here, fresh and faintly smelling of clean earth and plants just outside. Everywhere else the air was stagnant or musty or heavy or plainly unpleasant. Here it smelled like the forests and fields outside. Like freedom. Freedom, so close. So much for the Paling. Maybe the foolish thing didn't exist at all. Simple gates could keep the monster in.

Being so close to escape made him practically delirious with hope and relief. He might be dead, but he wasn't a prisoner.

No noise rose in the darkness for quite a while. Not a squeak or flutter or moan or ghosts rattling their invisible chains. That was a rare thing with so many creatures wandering the wine cellar. To Grissom it was anything but silent, but to anything but the undead there wasn't a sound.

The Dark never rested. It never allowed silence for its creatures. Life is never silent for a moment and incomplete death was no different. The dead could not just WANDER without guidance or influence. There had to be something to reign them. The Dark had its methods of control, none of them kind. Fear was crucial. They had to be confused. Unsure. Afraid. The fear did not have to be instilled by the Dark. It was already there. The human mind, in life or death, was a storm of enough fears, wild imagination, and weaknesses to find a way to attack the strongest of wills. It just needed to be taken advantage of.

The Dark was weakest close to the border of the city. It was furthest from the centre of the wellspring and did not have quite the same influence it did elsewhere in the city. But there was another force at work in its place. The Paling held the Dark fast, preventing the energies and the monsters from seeping out of the city and invading the land. Ironic, considering how much Dark magick went into creating it. But it had its purpose.

The first effects could be felt quite a distance from the Paling itself. For the dead who still possessed the ability to think, it acted much like the Dark's own attacks. Thinking became difficult. The closer the harder. Memory was affected as they drew closer, still little different from the task of the Dark. Things became confused or forgotten. The thing that set the Paling apart was its purpose. While not a thinking entity, the Dark had its own purpose for its creatures. The Paling was merely a fence to keep them in, and it knew exactly what to prey on to drive the dead back where they belonged. It was so interesting when they did not understand the painfully simple concept that they could not leave. More interesting still when they knew it and tried anyway. If they were too stubborn to be repelled, there was a brutal lesson to be learned.

This time was no different. It happened a hundred times since the Paling was erected, yet it never ceased to be fascinating. The cleric walked relatively calmly, as if to reassure himself there was nothing to run from. Fear stroked his mind, fear for himself, his fate, and from memories and voices becoming more and more blended. Every so often he stopped in his tracks, unsure if something he heard was real or not. It had merely frustrated him before, but now it was doing more than that.

Gradually he began moving faster, until he was halfway to a run. Sometimes he whispered things, prayers or pleas or curses or a mix of all three. The more audible mutterings were him thinking out loud. It was so hard to think clearly. Other voices were louder.

Panic overtook him suddenly and sent him into a flat-out run. Maybe he realized how fast things were becoming confused in his mind.

The wine cellar entrance was so close now, so close he could have heard someone yelling from the entrance. Yet he would not reach it. The vicious attacks were ripping his mind to shreds and he knew it. He could FEEL it. Yet he drove further still into the forces that screamed in his head and mangled his memories and thoughts. Further, just a little further.

How foolish to think the Paling was just some sort of wall that could be scaled or broken or magicked away as easily as snuffing out a candle. More foolish still to think it did not exist or that it would let him pass.

He still ran for the entrance, more or less, but his path was weaving and becoming more random. It was like running from Tieger and Neesa all over again, no coherent thought put into where he was going. He was more focussed on getting away from the things pounding his mind mercilessly. They would not let him think. They would not let him remember so much as his name, let alone why he was here or what he was doing. And insane, irrational fear pushed him on. Blinding fear was a better deterrent than any mind games or pain. Pain could be reserved for when he actually touched the Paling itself. The real core of the Paling was less than a hair's breadth, but its effects extended more than far enough. If that failed to repel the Dark's creatures, they could feel its real effects when they touched its core.

Its primary effects did their job to perfection. Grissom was soon collapsed to his hands and knees, trembling harder than ever and wanting so badly to scream. It was a terrible moment of deja vu, but so much worse than any other time he found himself shaking or screaming. Absolutely nothing would come to him, not a single memory. Just a terrible din of shouting voices and confusion.

When Sydney quietly entered the room he took no notice whatsoever. There could have been another quake and he would not know it. His mind being torn to shreds made him oblivious to everything.

The cultist was unsurprised with what he saw. He had never truly let the cleric go alone, he'd simply counted to a hundred before following. Grissom refused to listen, the only solution was to let him discover for himself just how real the Paling was. It wasn't some faerie story he could choose to believe or not. In Leá Monde, impossible things tended to be all too real. Grissom had to learn that.

"...do you understand now?" he asked, cautiously approaching the trembling cleric. There was no telling what his reaction to the Paling's effects would be. He was as likely to kneel there and do nothing as he was to snap and attack again. Dealing with the undead, no matter what their behaviour in life, required a careful approach.

Grissom had no answer for him, if he heard him at all. The cleric covered his face with both hands, digging his fingers in until it seemed they would draw blood.

Sydney had a morbid curiosity about what could be distracting him so. This wasn't the first time the cleric had done it, it was making him wonder just what the hell he was HEARING. There were the voices of the city, Sydney knew about those already and saw nothing but a mild distraction once one got used to them. Perhaps Grissom's will was weaker than he thought.

Sydney opened his mind to hear the souls and memories around him. It was going to be harder with Grissom than most. Prying at the souls of the undead was not easy, they viciously guarded their souls and veiled their secrets. But it could succeed to a degree. Sydney pushed away all the uninteresting background noise and babble of wandering souls and focussed on one in particular.

The small flash of chaos was like a slap in the face. It made him quickly sever the vision, but not before he had a feel for what was digging its claws into the cleric's mind. It was like some vicious animal was ripping it to shreds. And fear.... Sydney had never felt that kind of fear, not himself and not from another. No wonder he did not even respond. His memories were in tatters and his sanity was not far behind. If he even heard Sydney, he might not have remembered who he was.

Sydney shook his head to rid himself of the lingering emotions that were not his own. His head ached now. Maybe Grissom was not so weak-willed after all. It was sad, really. The Paling did its task brutally. At this rate it would drive the cleric to madness or leave him as shattered and empty as most of the other lost souls.

Grissom didn't have the sense or the ability to fight it now, he was trapped. Any intervention would have to come from the cultist. Could he help the zealot who had tried to kill him at least twice, or just leave him to his fate? That was pretty bloody tempting, actually. If there was a fate a hypocrite such as Grissom deserved it was to wander this place as a demon. Sydney watched him coldly for a moment, seriously considering both options.

In the end he sighed to himself and went closer to the cleric. He was thinking like Guildenstern or Cambrai to consider leaving a soul to damnation. Besides, Grissom had proved to be rather interesting. Sydney did not have the luxury to spend all day chatting with the undead. There were places he had to be very soon and fate would not wait for him. But it would not set well with him to leave the cleric like this. He was to blame for bringing him down here in the first place. If Grissom could learn from his foolishness he might manage to make his damnation a little less hellish.

Sydney quietly knelt, making sure not to startle him. Grissom was crouched there just as he had been before. A red drop trailed down one hand and splattered on the dusty stones. He'd drawn blood after all. Sydney grimaced and gently took hold of the cleric's wrists, lowering his hands from his face.

Though he expected a look of horror, Grissom's expression was very blank. It did not betray how mangled his mind was or how afraid he felt. Sydney would have preferred horror. Feeling something so intense and lacking any expression was rather unnerving.

"Listen to me Grissom..." he muttered softly, still holding the cleric's wrists. He had no feeling in his metal hands, but could easily imagine how cold the man's flesh was. "Grissom, I know you hear me." He was seriously doubting it, but the words were more for their lulling, reassuring effect than for the cleric to understand them. Repeating his name might help bring him around a little. People tend to listen for their name. "Do not fear... Your memories have to help you. Grissom, remember. Let yourself relive, REMEMBER. Let me help." He released one wrist and reached out a claw, as if offering it to help Grissom stand. Instead he gently laid his claw on the cleric's forehead.

Grissom blinked slowly, just a fraction of awareness.

"Show me your soul, Grissom...."

And he did.

   [1]: mailto:barhaven@hotmail.com



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